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ge  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 
aOHN   MASEFIELE 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

PAUL  TURNER,  U.S.M.C.R. 

KILLED  IN  ACTION,  SAIPAN 

JUNE,  1944 


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THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 


^^^ 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NKW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE 
DAFFODIL  FIELDS 


BY 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 

▲UTHOK  OF  "the  EVBBLA8TING  MERCY,"  "THE  WIDOW  IH 

THE  BYE  STREET, "  "THE  STORY  OF  A 

ROUND-HOUSE,"  ETC. 


THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1913 

AU  righU  reterved 


Copyright,  1918, 
By  JOHN  MA8EFIELD. 

Set  np  and  electrotyped.    Published  March,  1913. 


lirotisoaTi  9tnis 

J.  S.  Cnshing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 


602567 


THE   DAFFODIL   FIELDS 
I 

Between  the  barren  pasture  and  the  wood 
There  is  a  patch  of  poultry-stricken  grass, 
Where,  in  old  time,  Ryemeadows'  Farmhouse  stood. 
And  human  fate  brought  tragic  things  to  pass. 
A  spring  comes  bubbUng  up  there,  cold  as  glass. 
It  bubbles  down,  crusting  the  leaves  with  lime. 
Babbling  the  self-same  song  that  it  has  sung  through 
time. 

Ducks  gobble  at  the  selvage  of  the  brook. 
But  still  it  slips  away,  the  cold  hill-spring. 
Past  the  Ryemeadows'  lonely  woodland  nook 
Where  many  a  stubble  gray-goose  preens  her  wing. 
On,  by  the  woodland  side.     You  hear  it  sing 
Past  the  lone  copse  where  poachers  set  their  wires. 
Past  the  green  hill  once  grim  with  sacrificial  fires. 

B  1 


2  THE    DAFFODIL    FIELDS 

Another  water  joins  it ;  then  it  turns, 
Runs  through  the  Ponton  Wood,  still  turning  west, 
Past  foxgloves,  Canterbury  bells,  and  ferns, 
And  many  a  blackbird's,  many  a  thrush's  nest ; 
The  cattle  tread  it  there ;  then,  with  a  zest 
It  sparkles  out,  babbling  its  pretty  chatter 
Through  Foxholes  Farm,  where  it  gives  white-faced 
cattle  water. 

Under  the  road  it  runs,  and  now  it  slips 
Past  the  great  ploughland,  babbling,  drop  and  linn. 
To  the  moss'd  stumps  of  elm  trees  which  it  lips. 
And  blackberry-bramble-trails  where  eddies  spin. 
Then,  on  its  left,  some  short-grassed  fields  begin. 
Red-clayed  and  pleasant,  which  the  young  spring  fills 
With  the  never-quiet  joy  of  dancing  daffodils. 

There  are  three  fields  where  daffodils  are  found ; 
The  grass  is  dotted  blue-gray  with  their  leaves ; 
Their  nodding  beauty  shakes  along  the  ground 
Up  to  a  fir-clump  shutting  out  the  eaves 


TBE    DAFFODIL    FIELDS  3 

Of  an  old  farm  where  always  the  wind  grieves 
High  in  the  fir  boughs,  moaning ;  people  call 
This  farm  The  Roughs,  but  some  call  it  the  Poor  Maid's 
Hall. 

There,  when  the  first  green  shoots  of  tender  com 
Show  on  the  plough ;  when  the  first  drift  of  white 
Stars  the  black  branches  of  the  spiky  thorn. 
And  afternoons  are  warm  and  evenings  light, 
The  shivering  daffodils  do  take  delight, 
Shaking  beside  the  brook,  and  grass  comes  green, 
And  blue  dog-violets  come  and  glistening  celandine. 

And  there  the  pickers  come,  picking  for  town 
Those  dancing  daffodils ;  all  day  they  pick ; 
Hard-featured  women,  weather-beaten  brown, 
Or  swarthy-red,  the  colour  of  old  brick. 
At  noon  they  break  their  meats  under  the  rick. 
The  smoke  of  all  three  farms  lifts  blue  in  air 
As  though  man's  passionate  mind  had  never  suffered 
there. 


4  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  sometimes  as  they  rest  an  old  man  comes, 
Shepherd  or  carter,  to  the  hedgerow-side, 
And  looks  upon  their  gangrel  tribe,  and  hums. 
And  thinks  all  gone  to  wreck  since  master  died ; 
And  sighs  over  a  passionate  harvest-tide 
Which  Death's  red  sickle  reaped  under  those  hills, 
There,  in  the  quiet  fields  among  the  daffodils. 

When  this  most  tragic  fate  had  time  and  place. 
And  human  hearts  and  minds  to  show  it  by, 
Ryemeadows'  Farmhouse  was  in  evil  case : 
Its  master,  Nicholas  Gray,  was  like  to  die. 
He  lay  in  bed,  watching  the  windy  sky. 
Where  all  the  rooks  were  homing  on  slow  wings. 
Cawing,  or  blackly  circling  in  enormous  rings. 

With  a  sick  brain  he  watched  them ;  then  he  took 
Paper  and  pen,  and  wrote  in  straggling  hand 
(Like  spider's  legs,  so  much  his  fingers  shook) 
Word  to  the  friends  who  held  the  adjoining  land, 
Bidding  them  come ;  no  more  he  could  command 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  6 

His  fingers  twitching  to  the  feebling  blood ; 
He  watched  his  last  day's  sun  dip  down  behind  the 
wood. 

While  all  his  life's  thoughts  surged  about  his  brain : 
Memories  and  pictures  clear,  and  faces  known  — 
Long  dead,  perhaps ;  he  was  a  child  again, 
Treading  a  threshold  in  the  dark  alone. 
Then  back  the  present  surged,  making  him  moan. 
He  asked  if  Keir  had  come  yet.     "No,"  they  said. 
"Nor  Occleve?"    "No."    He  moaned:   "Come  soon 
or  I'll  be  dead." 

The  names  like  live  things  wandered  in  his  mind : 
"Charles  Occleve  of  The  Roughs,"   and  "Rowland 

Keir  — 
Keir  of  the  Foxholes  " ;  but  his  brain  was  blind, 
A  blind  old  alley  in  the  storm  of  the  year, 
Baffling  the  traveller  life  with  "  No  way  here,'* 
For  all  his  lantern  raised ;  life  would  not  tread 
Within  that  brain  again,  along  those  pathways  red. 


6  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Soon  all  was  dimmed  but  in  the  heaven  one  star. 
"I'll  hold  to  that,"  he  said;  then  footsteps  stirred. 
Down  in  the  court  a  voice  said,  "Here  they  are," 
And  one,  "He's  almost  gone."     The  sick  man  heard. 
"Oh  God,  be  quick,"  he  moaned.     "Only  one  word. 
Keir  !    Occleve  !    Let  them  come.     Why  don't  they 

come? 
Why  stop  to  tell  them  that  ?  —  the  devil  strike  you 

dumb. 

"  I'm  neither  doll  nor  dead ;  come  in,  come  in. 
Curse  you,  you  women,  quick,"  the  sick  man  flamed. 
"  I  shall  be  dead  before  I  can  begin. 
A  sick  man's  womaned-mad,  and  nursed  and  damed." 
Death  had  him  by  the  throat ;  his  wrath  was  tamed. 
"  Come  in,"  he  fumed ;  "  stop  muttering  at  the  door." 
The  friends  came  in ;  a  creaking  ran  across  the  floor. 

"  Now,  Nick,  how  goes  it,  man  ?  "  said  Occleve.     "  Oh/* 
The  dying  man  replied,  "  I  am  dying ;  past ; 
Mercy  of  God,  I  die,  I'm  going  to  go. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

But  I  have  much  to  tell  you  if  I  last. 
Come  near  me,  Occleve,  Keir.     I  am  sinking  fast. 
And  all  my  kin  are  coming ;  there,  look  there. 
All  the  old,  long  dead  Grays  are  moving  in  the  air. 

"  It  is  my  Michael  that  I  called  you  for : 

My  son,  abroad,  at  school  still,  over  sea. 

See  if  that  hag  is  listening  at  the  door. 

No  ?    Shut  the  door ;  don't  lock  it,  let  it  be. 

No  faith  is  kept  to  dying  men  like  me. 

I  am  dipped  deep  and  dying,  bankrupt,  done ; 

I  leave  not  even  a  farthing  to  my  lovely  son. 

"Neighbours,  these  many  years  our  children  played, 

Down  in  the  fields  together,  down  the  brook ; 

Your  Mary,  Keir,  the  girl,  the  bonny  maid. 

And  Occleve's  Lion,  always  at  his  book ; 

Them  and  my  Michael :  dear,  what  joy  they  took 

Picking  the  daffodils ;  such  friends  they've  been  — 

My  boy  and  Occleve's  boy  and  Mary  Keir  for  queen. 


8  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

"  I  had  made  plans ;  but  I  am  done  with,  I. 

Give  me  the  wine.     I  have  to  ask  you  this : 

I  can  leave  Michael  nothing,  and  I  die. 

By  all  our  friendship  used  to  be  and  is, 

Help  him,  old  friends.     Don't  let  my  Michael  miss 

The  schooling  I've  begun.     Give  him  his  chance. 

He  does  not  know  I  am  ill ;  I  kept  him  there  in  France. 

"  Saving  expense ;  each  penny  counts.     Oh,  friends, 

Help  him  another  year ;  help  him  to  take 

His  full  diploma  when  the  training  ends. 

So  that  my  ruin  won't  be  his.     Oh,  make 

This  sacrifice  for  our  old  friendship's  sake. 

And  God  will  pay  you ;  for  I  see  God's  hand 

Pass  in  most  marvellous  ways  on  souls :  I  understand 

"  How  just  rewards  are  given  for  man's  deeds 

And  judgment  strikes  the  soul.     The  wine  there,  wine. 

Life  is  the  daily  thing  man  never  heeds. 

It  is  ablaze  with  sign  and  countersign. 

Michael  will  not  forget :  that  son  of  mine 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  9 

Is  a  rare  son,  my  friends ;  he  will  go  far. 

I  shall  behold  his  course  from  where  the  blessed  are." 

"  Why,  Nick,"  said  Occleve,  "  come,  man.     Gather  hold. 

Rouse  up.    You've  given  way.     If  times  are  bad, 

Times  must  be  bettering,  mas^  r ;  so  be  bold ; 

Lift  up  your  spirit,  Nicholas,  and  be  glad. 

Michael's  as  much  to  me  as  my  dear  lad. 

I'll  see  he  takes  his  school."     "  And  I,"  said  Keir. 

"  Set  you  no  keep  by  that,  but  be  at  rest,  my  dear. 

"  We'll  see  your  Michael  started  on  the  road." 
"But  there,"  said  Occleve,  "Nick's  not  going  to  die. 
Out  of  the  ruts,  good  nag,  now ;  zook  the  load. 
Pull  up,  man.     Death  !    Death  and  the  fiend  defy. 
We'll  bring  the  farm  round  for  you,  Keir  and  I. 
Put  heart  at  rest  and  get  your  health."     "Ah,  no," 
The  sick  man  faintly  answered,  "  I  have  got  to  go." 

Still  troubled  in  his  mind,  the  sick  man  tossed. 
"  Old  friends,"  he  said,  "  I  once  had  hoped  to  see 


10  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Mary  and  Michael  wed,  but  fates  are  crossed. 

And  Michael  starts  with  nothing  left  by  me. 

Still,  if  he  loves  her,  will  you  let  it  be  ? 

So  in  the  grave,  maybe,  when  I  am  gone, 

I'll  know  my  hope  fulfilled,  and  see  the  plan  go  on." 

"  I  judge  by  hearts,  not  money,"  answered  Keir. 

"  If  Michael  suits  in  that  and  suits  my  maid, 

I  promise  you,  let  Occleve  witness  here 

He  shall  be  free  for  me  to  drive  his  trade. 

Free,  ay,  and  welcome,  too.     Be  not  afraid, 

I'll  stand  by  Michael  as  I  hope  some  friend 

Will  stand  beside  my  girl  in  case  my  own  life  end." 

"And  I,"  said  Occleve ;   but  the  sick  man  seemed 

Still  ill  at  ease.     "My  friends,"  he  said,  "my  friends, 

Michael  may  come  to  all  that  I  have  dreamed. 

But  he's  a  wild  yam  full  of  broken  ends. 

So  far  his  life  in  France  has  made  amends. 

God  grant  he  steady  so ;  but  girls  and  drink 

Once  brought  him  near  to  hell,  aye,  to  the  very  brink. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  11 

"  There  is  a  running  vein  of  wildness  in  him : 

Wildness  and  looseness  both,  which  vices  make 

That  woman's  task  a  hard  one  who  would  win  him : 

His  life  depends  upon  the  course  you  take. 

He  is  a  fiery-mettled  colt  to  break, 

And  one  to  curb,  one  to  be  curbed,  remember." 

The  dying  voice  died  down,  the  fire  left  the  ember. 

But  once  again  it  flamed.     "  Ah  me,"  he  cried ; 

"  Our  secret  sins  take  body  in  our  sons. 

To  haunt  our  age  with  what  we  put  aside. 

I  was  a  devil  for  the  women  once. 

He  is  as  I  was.     Beauty  like  the  sun's ; 

Within,  all  water ;  minded  like  the  moon. 

Go  now.     I  sinned.     I  die.     I  shall  be  punished  soon." 

The  two  friends  tiptoed  to  the  room  below. 
There,  till  the  woman  came  to  them,  they  told 
Of  brave  adventures  in  the  long  ago, 
Ere  Nick  and  they  had  thought  of  growing  old ; 
Snipe-shooting  in  the  marshlands  in  the  cold, 


12  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Old  soldiering  days  as  yeomen,  days  at  fairs, 

Days  that  had  sent  Nick  tired  to  those  self-same  chairs. 

They  vowed  to  pay  the  schooling  for  his  son. 
They  talked  of  Michael,  testing  men's  report. 
How  the  young  student  was  a  lively  one. 
Handsome  and  passionate  both,  and  fond  of  sport. 
Eager  for  fim,  quick-witted  in  retort. 
The  girls'  hearts  quick  to  see  him  cocking  by, 
Young  x\pril  on  a  blood  horse,  with  a  roving  eye. 

And,  as  they  talked  about  the  lad,  Keir  asked 

If  Occleve's  son  had  not,  at  one  time,  been 

Heartsick  for  Mary,  though  with  passion  masked. 

"Ay,"  Occleve  said :  "Time  was.     At  seventeen. 

It  took  him  hard,  it  ran  his  ribs  all  lean. 

All  of  a  summer ;  but  it  passed,  it  died. 

Her  fancying  Michael  better  touched  my  Lion's  pride." 

Mice  flickered  from  the  wainscot  to  the  press, 
Nibbling  at  crumbs,  rattling  to  shelter,  squeaking. 


THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS  13 

Each  ticking  in  the  clock's  womb  made  life  less  ; 
Oil  slowly  dropped  from  where  the  lamp  was  leaking. 
At  times  the  old  nurse  set  the  staircase  creaking, 
Harked  to  the  sleeper's  breath,  made  sure,  returned, 
Answered  the  questioning  eyes,  then  wept.    The  great 
stars  burned. 

"  Listen,"  said  Occleve,  "  listen,  Rowland.     Hark." 
"  It's  Mary,  come  with  Lion,"  answered  Keir : 
"  They  said  they'd  come  together  after  dark." 
He  went  to  door  and  called  "  Come  in,  my  dear." 
The  burning  wood  log  blazed  with  sudden  cheer. 
So  that  a  glowing  lighted  all  the  room. 
His  daughter  Mary  entered  from  the  outer  gloom. 

The  wind  had  brought  the  blood  into  her  cheek, 
Heightening  her  beauty,  but  her  great  grey  eyes 
Were  roubled  with  a  fear  she  could  not  speak. 
Firm,  scarlet  lips  she  had,  not  made  for  lies. 
Gentle  she  seemed,  pure-natured,  thoughtful,  wise. 


14  TEE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  when  she  asked  what  turn  the  sickness  took, 
Her  voice's  passing  pureness  on  a  low  note  shook. 

Young  Lion  Occleve  entered  at  her  side, 
A  well-built,  clever  man,  unduly  grave, 
One  whose  repute  already  travelled  wide 
For  skill  in  breeding  beasts.     His  features  gave 
Promise  of  brilliant  mind,  far-seeing,  brave, 
One  who  would  travel  far.     His  manly  grace 
Grew  wistful  when  his  eyes  were  turned  on  Mary's 
face. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Mary,  "  what  did  doctor  say  ? 

How  ill  is  he  ?    What  chance  of  life  has  he  ? 

The  cowman  said  he  couldn't  last  the  day, 

And  only  yesterday  he  joked  with  me." 

"We  must  be  meek,"  the  nurse  said;    "such  things 

be." 
"There's  little  hope,"  said  Keir ;  "he's  dying,  sinking." 
"Dying  without  his  son,"  the  young  girl's  heart  was 

thinking. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  16 

"Does  Michael  know?"  she  asked.  "Has  he  been 
called?" 

A  slow  confusion  reddened  on  the  faces, 

As  when  one  light  neglect  leaves  friends  appalled. 

"No  time  to  think,"  said  nurse,  "in  such  like  cases." 

Old  Occleve  stooped  and  fumbled  with  his  laces. 

"  Let  be,"  he  said ;  "  there's  always  time  for  sorrow. 

He  could  not  come  in  time;  he  shall  be  called  to- 
morrow." 

"There  is  a  chance,"  she  cried,  "there  always  is. 
Poor  Mr.  Gray  might  rally,  might  live  on. 
Oh,  I  must  telegraph  to  tell  him  this. 
Would  it  were  day  still  and  the  message  gone." 
She  rose,  her  breath  came  fast,  her  grey  eyes  shone. 
She  said,  "  Come,  Lion ;  see  me  through  the  wood. 
Michael  must  know."    Kier  sighed.     "  Girl,  it  will  do 
no  good. 

"  Our  friend  is  on  the  brink  and  almost  passed." 
"All  the  more  need,"  she  said,  "for  word  to  go; 


16  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Michael  could  well  arrive  before  the  last. 

He'd  see  his  father's  face  at  least.     I  know 

The  office  may  be  closed ;  but  even  so, 

Father,  I  must.     Come,  Lion."    Out  they  went. 

Into  the  roaring  woodland  where  the  saplings  bent. 

Like  breakers  of  the  sea  the  leafless  branches 
Swished,  bowing  down,  rolling  like  water,  roaring 
Like  the  sea's  welcome  when  the  clipper  launches 
And  full  affronted  tideways  call  to  warring. 
Daffodils  glimmered  underfoot,  the  flooring 
Of  the  earthy  woodland  smelt  like  tom-up  moss ; 
Stones  in  the  path  showed  white,  and  rabbits  ran 
across. 

They  climbed  the  rise  and  struck  into  the  ride. 
Talking  of  death,  while  Lion,  sick  at  heart, 
Thought  of  the  woman  walking  at  his  side, 
And  as  he  talked  his  spirit  stood  apart. 
Old  passion  for  her  made  his  being  smart, 


THE   DAFFODIL  FIELDS  17 

Rankling  within.     Her  thought  for  Michael  ran 
Like  glory  and  like  poison  through  his  inner  man. 

"This  will  break  Michael's  heart,"  he  said  at  length. 
"  Poor  Michael,"  she  replied ;  "  they  wasted  hours. 
He  loved  his  father  so.     God  give  him  strength. 
This  is  a  cruel  thing  this  life  of  ours." 
The  windy  woodland  glimmered  with  shut  flowers. 
White  wood  anemones  that  the  wind  blew  down. 
The  valley  opened  wide  beyond  the  starry  town. 

"  Ten,"  clanged  out  of  the  belfry.     Lion  stayed 
One  hand  upon  a  many-carven  bole. 
"  Mary,"  he  said.     "  Dear,  my  beloved  maid, 
I  love  you,  dear  one,  from  my  very  soul." 
Her  beauty  in  the  dusk  destroyed  control. 
"  Mary,  my  dear,  I've  loved  you  all  these  years.'* 
"Oh,  Lion,   no,"  she  murmured,  choking  back  her 
tears. 

"I  love  you,"  he  repeated.     "Five  years  since 
This  thing  began  between  us  :  every  day 


18  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Oh  sweet,  the  thought  of  you  has  made  me  wince ; 
The  thought  of  you,  my  sweet,  the  look,  the  way. 
It's  only  you,  whether  I  work  or  pray, 
You  and  the  hope  of  you,  sweet  you,  dear  you. 
I  never  spoke  before ;  now  it  has  broken  through. 

"Oh,  my  beloved,  can  you  care  for  me ?" 

She  shook  her  head.     "  Oh,  hush,  oh,  Lion  dear, 

Don't  speak  of  love,  for  it  can  never  be 

Between  us  two,  never,  however  near. 

Come  on,  my  friend,  we  must  not  linger  here." 

White  to  the  lips  she  spoke ;  he  saw  her  face 

White  in  the  darkness  by  him  in  the  windy  place. 

"Mary,  in  time  you  could,  perhaps,"  he  pleaded. 
"No,"  she  replied,  "no.  Lion;  never,  no." 
Over  the  stars  the  boughs  burst  and  receded. 
The  nobleness  of  Love  comes  in  Love's  woe. 
"  God  bless  you  then,  beloved,  let  us  go. 
Come  on,"  he  said,  "and  if  I  gave  you  pain. 
Forget  it,  dear ;  be  sure  I  never  will  again." 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  19 

They  stepped  together  down  the  ride,  their  feet 
Slipped  on  loose  stones.     Little  was  said ;  his  fate. 
Staked  on  a  kingly  cast,  had  met  defeat. 
Nothing  remained  except  to  endure  and  wait. 
She  was  still  wonderful,  and  life  still  great. 
Great  in  that  bitter  instant  side  by  side. 
Hallowed  by  thoughts  of  death  there  in  the  blinded 
ride. 

He  heard  her  breathing  by  him,  saw  her  face 

Dim,  looking  straight  ahead ;  her  feet  by  his 

Kept  time  beside  him,  giving  life  a  grace ; 

Night  made  the  moment  full  of  mysteries. 

"You  are  beautiful,"  he  thought ;  "and  life  is  this : 

Walking  a  windy  night  while  men  are  dying, 

To  cry  for  one  to  come,  and  none  to  heed  our  crying." 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "are  you  in  love  with  him. 

With  Michael  ?     Tell  me.     We  are  friends,  we  three." 

They  paused  to  face  each  other  in  the  dim. 

"Tell  me,"  he  urged.     "Yes,  Lion,"  answered  she; 


20  THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS 

"  I  love  him,  but  he  does  not  care  for  me. 

I  trust  your  generous  mind,  dear ;  now  you  know, 

You,  who  have  been  my  brother,  how  our  fortunes  go, 

"Now    come;     the    message  waits."      The  heavens 

cleared, 
Cleared,  and  were  starry  as  they  trod  the  ride. 
Chequered  by  tossing  boughs  the  moon  appeared ; 
A  whistling  reached  them  from  the  Hall  House  side ; 
Climbing,  the  whistler  came.     A  brown  owl  cried. 
The  whistler  paused  to  answer,  sending  far 
That  haunting,   hunting  note.    The  echoes  laughed 

Ahal 

Something  about  the  calling  made  them  start. 
Again  the  owl  note  laughed ;  the  ringing  cry 
Made  the  blood  quicken  within  Mary's  heart. 
Like  a  dead  leaf  a  brown  owl  floated  by. 
"  Michael  ?  "  said  Lion.     "  Hush."     An  owl's  reply 
Came  down  the  wind ;  they  waited ;  then  the  man. 
Content,  resumed  his  walk,  a  merry  song  began. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  21 

"Michael,"  they  cried  together.     "Michael,  you  ?" 
"  Who  calls  ?  "  the  singer  answered.     "  Where  away  ? 
Is  that  you,  Mary  ?"    Then  with  glad  halloo 
The  singer  ran  to  meet  them  on  the  way. 
It  was  their  Michael ;  in  the  moonlight  grey. 
They  made  warm  welcome ;  under  tossing  boughs. 
They  met  and  told  the  fate  darkening  Ryemeadows 
House. 

As  they  returned  at  speed  their  comrade  spoke 
Strangely  and  lightly  of  his  coming  home. 
Saying  that  leaving  France  had  been  a  joke. 
But  that  events  now  proved  him  wise  to  come. 
Down  the  steep  'scarpment  to  the  house  they  clomb. 
And  Michael  faltered  in  his  pace ;  they  heard 
How   dumb    rebellion    in    the    much-wronged    cattle 
stirred. 

And  as  they  came,  high,  from  the  sick  man's  room, 
Old  Gray  burst  out  a-singing  of  the  light 
Streaming  upon  him  from  the  outer  gloom. 


22  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

As  his  eyes  dying  gave  him  mental  sight. 
"  Triumphing  swords,"  he  carolled,  "  in  the  bright ; 
Oh  fire.  Oh  beauty  fire,"  and  fell  back  dead. 
Occleve  took  Michael  up  to  kneel  beside  the  bed. 

So  the  night  passed ;  the  noisy  wind  went  down ; 
The  half-burnt  moon  her  starry  trackway  rode. 
Then  the  first  fire  was  lighted  in  the  town, 
And  the  first  carter  stacked  his  early  load. 
Upon  the  farm's  drawn  blinds  the  morning  glowed ; 
And  down  the  valley,  with  little  clucks  and  trills, 
The  dancing  waters  danced  by  dancing  daffodils. 

II 

They  buried  Gray ;  his  gear  was  sold ;  liis  farm 

Passed  to  another  tenant.     Thus  men  go ; 

The  dropped  sword  passes  to  another  arm. 

And  different  waters  in  the  river  flow. 

His  two  old  faithful  friends  let  Michael  know 

His  father's  ruin  and  their  promise.    Keir 

Brought  him  to  stay  at  Foxholes  till  a  path  was  clear. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  23 

There,  when  the  sale  was  over,  all  three  met 
To  talk  about  the  future,  and  to  find 
Upon  what  project  Michael's  heart  was  set. 
Gentle  the  two  old  men  were,  thoughtful,  kind. 
They  urged  the  youth  to  speak  his  inmost  mind, 
For  they  would  compass  what  he  chose ;  they  told 
How  he  might  end  his  training;    they  would  find  the 
gold. 

"Thanks,  but  I  cannot,"  Michael  said.     He  smiled. 
"Cannot.     They've   kicked   me   out.     I've   been   ex- 
pelled ; 
Kicked  out  for  good  and  all  for  being  wild. 
They  stopped  our  evening  leave,  and  I  rebelled. 
I  am  a  gentle  soul  until  compelled, 
And  then  I  put  my  ears  back.     The  old  fool 
Said  that  my  longer  presence  might  inflame  the  school. 

"  And  I  am  glad,  for  I  have  had  my  fill 

Of  farming  by  the  book  with  those  old  fools, 

Exhausted  talkatives  whose  blood  is  still, 


24  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Who  strive  to  bind  a  living  man  with  rules. 
This  fettered  kind  of  life,  these  laws,  these  schools, 
These  codes,  these  checks,  what  are  they  but  the  clogs 
Made  by  collected  sheep  to  mortify  the  dogs  ? 

"  And  I  have  had  enough  of  them ;  and  now 
I  make  an  end  of  them.     I  want  to  go 
Somewhere  where  man  has  never  used  a  plough. 
Nor  ever  read  a  book ;  where  clean  winds  blow, 
And  passionate  blood  is  not  its  owner's  foe. 
And  land  is  for  the  asking  for  it.    There 
Man  can  create  a  life  and  have  the  open  air. 

"  The  River  Plate's  the  country.     There,  I  know, 
A  man  like  me  can  thrive.     There,  on  the  range. 
The  cattle  pass  like  tides ;  they  ebb  and  flow. 
And  life  is  changeless  in  unending  change. 
And  one  can  ride  all  day,  and  all  day  strange, 
Strange,  never  trodden,  fenceless,  waiting  there. 
To  feed  unending  cattle  for  the  men  who  dare. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  26 

"There  I  should  have  a  chance;  this  land's  too  old." 

Old  Occleve  grunted  at  the  young  man's  mood ; 

Keir,  who  was  losing  money,  thought  him  bold. 

And  thought  the  scheme  for  emigration  good. 

He  said  that,  if  he  wished  to  go,  he  should. 

South  to  the  pampas,  there  to  learn  the  trade. 

Old  Occleve  thought  it  mad,  but  no  objection  made. 

So  it  was  settled  that  the  lad  should  start, 
A  place  was  found  for  him,  a  berth  was  taken ; 
And  Michael's  beauty  plucked  at  Mary's  heart. 
And  now  the  fabric  of  their  lives  was  shaken : 
For  now  the  hour's  nearness  made  love  waken 
In  Michael's  heart  for  Mary.    Now  Time's  guile 
Granted  her  passionate  prayer,  nor  let  her  see  his 
smile. 

Granted  his  greatest  gifts ;  a  night  time  came 
When  the  two  walking  down  the  water  learned 
That  life  till  then  had  only  been  a  name ; 
Love  had  unsealed  their  spirits :  they  discerned. 


26  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Mutely,  at  moth  time  there,  their  spirits  yearned. 
"  I  shall  be  gone  three  years,  dear  soul,"  he  said. 
"Dear,  will  you  wait  for  me?"    "I  will,"  replied  the 
maid. 

So  troth  was  pledged  between  them.     Keir  received 

Michael  as  Mary's  suitor,  feeling  sure 

That  the  lad's  fortunes  would  be  soon  retrieved, 

Having  a  woman's  promise  as  a  lure. 

The  three  years'  wait  would  teach  them  to  endure. 

He  bade  them  love  and  prosper  and  be  glad. 

And  fast  the  day  drew  near  that  was  to  take  the  lad. 

Cowshps  had  come  along  the  bubbling  brook. 
Cowslips  and  oxlips  rare,  and  in  the  wood 
The  many-blossomed  stalks  of  bluebells  shook ; 
The  outward  beauty  fed  their  mental  mood. 
Thought  of  the  parting  stabbed  her  as  he  wooed, 
Walking  the  brook  with  her,  and  day  by  day. 
The  precious  fortnight's  grace  dropped,  wasted,  slipped 
away. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  27 

Till  only  one  clear  day  remained  to  her : 
One  whole  clear  precious  day,  before  he  sailed. 
Some  forty  hours,  no  more,  to  minister 
To  months  of  bleakness  before  which  she  quailed. 
Mist  rose  along  the  brook ;  the  corncrake  railed ; 
Dim  red  the  sunset  burned.     He  bade  her  come 
Into  the  wood  with  him;   they  went,  the  night  came 
dumb. 

Still  as  high  June,  the  very  water's  noise 
Seemed  but  a  breathing  of  the  earth ;  the  flowers 
Stood  in  the  dim  like  souls  without  a  voice. 
The  wood's  conspiracy  of  occult  powers 
Drew  all  about  them,  and  for  hours  on  hours 
No  murmur  shook  the  oaks,  the  stars  did  house 
Their    lights    like    lamps    upon    those    never-moving 
boughs. 

Under  their  feet  the  woodland  sloped  away 
Down  to  the  valley,  where  the  farmhouse  lights 
Were  sparks  in  the  expanse  the  moon  made  grey. 


28  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

June's  very  breast  was  bare  this  night  of  nights. 
Moths  blundered  up  against  them,  greys  and  whites 
Moved  on  the  darkness  where  the  moths  were  out, 
Nosing  for  sticky  sweet  with  trembUng  uncurled  snout. 

But  all  this  beauty  was  but  music  played, 
While  the  high  pageant  of  their  hearts  prepared. 
A  spirit  thrilled  between  them,  man  to  maid, 
Mind  flowed  in  mind,  the  inner  heart  was  bared, 
They  needed  not  to  tell  how  much  each  cared ; 
All  the  soul's  strength  was  at  the  other's  soul. 
Flesh  was  away  awhile,  a  glory  made  them  whole. 

Nothing  was  said  by  them ;  they  understood. 
They  searched  each  other's  eyes  without  a  sound, 
Alone  with  moonlight  in  the  heart  of  the  wood. 
Knowing  the  stars  and  all  the  soul  of  the  ground. 
"Mary,"  he  murmured.     "Come."    His  arms  went 

round, 
A  white  moth  glimmered  by,  the  woods  were  hushed ; 
The  rose  at  Mary's  bosom  dropped  its  petals,  crushed. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  29 

No  word  profaned  the  peace  of  that  glad  giving, 

But  the  warm  dimness  of  the  night  stood  still. 

Drawing  all  beauty  to  the  point  of  living, 

There  in  the  beech-tree's  shadow  on  the  hill. 

Spirit  to  spirit  murmured ;  mingling  will 

Made  them  one  being ;  Time's  decaying  thought 

Fell  from  them  like  a  rag ;  it  was  the  soul  they  sought. 

The  moonlight  found  an  opening  in  the  boughs ; 

It  entered  in,  it  filled  that  sacred  place 

With  consecration  on  the  throbbing  brows ; 

It  came  with  benediction  and  with  grace. 

A  whispering  came  from  face  to  yearning  face : 

"  Beloved,  will  you  wait  for  me ?"     "My  own." 

"  I  shall  be  gone  three  years,  you  will  be  left  alone ; 

"You'll  trust  and  wait  for  me?"    "Yes,  yes,"  she 

sighed ; 
She  would  wait  any  term  of  years,  all  time  — 
So  faithful  to  first  love  these  souls  abide, 
Carrying  a  man's  soul  with  them  as  they  climb. 


30  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Life  was  all  flower  to  them ;  the  church  bells'  chime 
Rang  out  the  burning  hour  ere  they  had  sealed 
Love's  charter  there  below  the  June  sky's  starry  field. 

Sweetly  the  church  bells'  music  reached  the  wood. 
Chiming  an  old  slow  tune  of  some  old  hymn. 
Calling  them  back  to  life  from  where  they  stood 
Under  the  moonlit  beech-tree  grey  and  dim. 
"Mary,"  he  murmured ;  pressing  close  to  him. 
Her  kiss  came  on  the  gift  he  gave  her  there, 
A  silken  scarf  that  bore  her  name  worked  in  his  hair. 

But  still  the  two  affixed  their  hands  and  seals 

To  a  life  compact  witnessed  by  the  sky. 

Where  the  great  planets  drove  their  glittering  wheels. 

Bringing  conflicting  fate,  making  men  die. 

They  loved,  and  she  would  wait,  and  he  would  try. 

"Oh,  beauty  of  my  love,"  "My  lovely  man." 

So  beauty  made  them  noble  for  their  little  span. 

Time  cannot  pause,  however  dear  the  wooer ; 
The  moon  declined,  the  sunrise  came,  the  hours, 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  31 

Left  to  the  lovers,  dwindled  swiftly  fewer. 
Even  as  the  seeds  from  dandelion-flowers 
Blow,  one  by  one,  until  the  bare  stalk  cowers. 
And  the  June  grass  grows  over ;  even  so 
Daffodil-picker  Time  took  from  their  lives  the  glow. 

Stole  their  last  walk  along  the  three  green  fields. 
Their  latest  hour  together ;  he  took,  he  stole 
The  white  contentment  that  a  true  love  yields ; 
He  took  the  triumph  out  of  Mary's  soul. 
Now  she  must  lie  awake  and  blow  the  coal 
Of  sorrow  of  heart.    The  parting  hour  came ; 
They  kissed  their  last  good-bye,  murmiu"ing  the  other's 
name. 

Then  the  flag  waved,  the  engine  snorted,  then 
Slowly  the  couplings  tautened,  and  the  train 
Moved,  bearing  off  from  her  her  man  of  men ; 
She  looked  towards  its  going  blind  with  pain. 
Her  father  turned  and  drove  her  home  again. 
It  was  a  different  home.     Awhile  she  tried 


32  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

To  cook  the  dinner  there,  but  flung  her  down  and 
cried. 

Then  in  the  dusk  she  wandered  down  the  brook. 

Treading  again  the  trackway  trod  of  old, 

When  she  could  hold  her  loved  one  in  a  look. 

The  night  was  all  unlike  those  nights  of  gold. 

Michael  was  gone,  and  all  the  April  old, 

Withered  and  hidden.    Life  was  full  of  ills ; 

She  flung  her  down  and  cried  i'  the  withered  daffodils 

III 

The  steaming  river  loitered  like  old  blood 
On  which  the  tugboat  bearing  Michael  beat. 
Past  whitened  horse  bones  sticking  in  the  mud. 
The  reed  stems  looked  like  metal  in  the  heat. 
Then  the  banks  fell  away,  and  there  were  neat. 
Red  herds  of  sullen  cattle  drifting  slow. 
A  fish  leaped,  making  rings,  making  the  dead  blood 
flow. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  33 

Wormed  hard-wood  piles  were  driv'n  in  the  river  bank. 

The  steamer  threshed  alongside  with  sick  screws 

Churning  the  mud  below  her  till  its  tank ; 

Big  gassy  butcher-bubbles  burst  on  the  ooze. 

There  Michael  went  ashore ;  as  glad  to  lose 

One  not  a  native  there,  the  Gauchos  flung 

His  broken  gear  ashore,  one  waved,  a  bell  was  rung. 

The  bowfast  was  cast  off,  the  screw  revolved. 
Making  a  bloodier  bubbling ;  rattling  rope 
Fell  to  the  hatch,  the  engine's  tune  resolved 
Into  its  steadier  beat  of  rise  and  slope ; 
The  steamer  went  her  way ;  and  Michael's  hope 
Died  as  she  lessened ;  he  was  there  alone. 
The  lowing  of  the  cattle  made  a  gradual  moan. 

He  thought  of  Mary,  but  the  thought  was  dim ; 
That  was  another  life,  lived  long  before. 
His  mind  was  in  new  worlds  which  altered  him. 
The  startling  present  left  no  room  for  more. 
The  sullen  river  lipped,  the  sky,  the  shore 

D 


34  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Were  vaster  than  of  old,  and  lonely,  lonely. 

Sky  and  low  hills  of  grass  and  moaning  cattle  only. 

But  for  a  hut  bestrewn  with  skulls  of  beeves, 
Round  which  the  flies  danced,  where  an  Indian  girl 
Bleared  at  him  from  her  eyes'  ophthalmic  eaves. 
Grinning  a  welcome ;  with  a  throaty  skirl. 
She  offered  him  herself ;  but  he,  the  churl, 
Stared  till  she  thought  him  fool ;  she  turned,  she  sat, 
Scratched  in  her  short,  black  hair,  chewed  a  cigar-end, 
spat. 

Up,  on  the  rise,  the  cattle  bunched ;  the  bulls 
Drew  to  the  front  with  menace,  pawing  bold. 
Snatching  the  grass-roots  out  with  sudden  pulls. 
The  distant  cattle  raised  their  heads ;  the  wold 
Grew  dusty  at  the  top ;  a  waggon  rolled. 
Drawn  by  a  bickering  team  of  mules  whose  eyes 
Were  yellow  like  their  teeth  and  bared  and  full  of  vice. 

Down  to  the  jetty  came  the  jingling  team. 
An  Irish  cowboy  driving,  while  a  Greek 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  35 

Beside  him  urged  the  mules  with  blow  and  scream. 
They  cheered  the  Indian  girl  and  stopped  to  speak. 
Then  lifting  her  aloft  they  kissed  her  cheek, 
Calling  to  Michael  to  be  quick  aboard, 
Or  they  (they  said)  would  fall  from  virtue,  by  the  Lord. 

So  Michael  climbed  aboard,  and  all  day  long 

He  drove  the  cattle  range,  rise  after  rise. 

Dotted  with  limber  shorthorns  grazing  strong, 

Cropping  sweet-tasted  pasture,  switching  flies ; 

Dull  trouble  brooded  in  their  smoky  eyes. 

Some  horsemen  watched  them.      As   the  sim  went 

down. 
The  waggon  reached  the  estancia  builded  like  a  town. 

With  wide  corrales  where  the  horses  squealed, 
Biting  and  lashing  out ;  some  half-wild  hounds 
Gnawed  at  the  cowbones  littered  on  the  field. 
Or  made  the  stallions  stretch  their  picket  bounds. 
Some  hides  were  drying ;  horsemen  came  from  rounds. 
Unsaddled  stiff,  and  turned  their  moimts  to  feed. 


36  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  then  brewed  bitter  drink  and  sucked  it  through  a 
reed. 

The  Irishman  removed  his  pipe  and  spoke : 
"  You  take  a  fool's  advice,"  he  said.     "  Return. 
Go  back  where  you  belong  before  you're  broke ; 
You'll  spoil  more  clothes  at  this  job  than  you'll  earn ; 
It's  living  death,  and  when  you  die  you'll  bum : 
Body  and  soul  it  takes  you.     Quit  it.     No  ? 
Don't  say  I  never  told  you,  then.     Amigos.     Ho. 

"  Here  comes  a  Gringo ;  make  him  pay  his  shot. 

Pay  up  your  footing,  Michael ;  rum's  the  word, 

It  suits  my  genius,  and  I  need  a  lot." 

So  the  great  cauldron  full  was  mixed  and  stirred. 

And  all  night  long  the  startled  cattle  heard 

Shouting  and  shooting,  and  the  moon  beheld 

Mobs  of  dim,  struggling  men,  who  fired  guns  and  yelled 

That  they  were  Abel  Brown  just  come  to  town, 
Michael  among  them.     By  a  bonfire  some 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  37 

Betted  on  red  and  black  for  money  down, 
Snatching  their  clinking  winnings,  eager,  dumb. 
Some  danced  imclad,  rubbing  their  heads  with  rum. 
The  grey  dawn,  bringing  beauty  to  the  skies. 
Saw  Michael  stretched  among  them,  far  too  drunk  to 
rise. 

His  footing  paid,  he  joined  the  living-shed. 
Lined  with  rude  bimks  and  set  with  trestles :  there 
He,  like  the  other  ranchers,  slept  and  fed. 
Save  when  the  staff  encamped  in  open  air. 
Rounding  the  herd  for  branding.     Rude  and  bare 
That  barrack  was ;  men  littered  it  about 
With  saddles,  blankets  blue,  old  headstalls,  many  a 
clout 

Tom  off  to  wipe  a  knife  or  clean  a  gim. 
Tin  dishes,  sailors'  hookpots,  all  the  mess 
Made  where  the  outdoor  work  is  never  done 
And  every  cleaning  makes  the  sleeping  less. 
Men  came  from  work  too  tired  to  imdress. 


38  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  slept  all  standing  like  the  trooper's  horse ; 

Then  with  the  sun  they  rose  to  ride  the  burning  course. 

Whacking  the  shipment  cattle  into  pen, 

Where,  in  the  dust,  among  the  stink  of  burning, 

The  half-mad  heifers  bolted  from  the  men. 

And  tossing  horns  arose  and  hoofs  were  chuj^ing, 

A  lover  there  had  little  time  for  yearning ; 

But  all  day  long,  cursing  the  flies  and  heat, 

Michael  was  handling  steers  on  horseback  till  his  feet 

Gave  on  dismounting.     All  day  long  he  rode, 
Then,  when  the  darkness  came,  his  mates  and  he 
Entered  dog-tired  to  the  rude  abode 
And  ate  their  meat  and  sucked  their  bitter  tea. 
And  rolled  themselves  in  rugs  and  slept.     The  sea 
Could  not  make  men  more  drowsy ;  like  the  dead, 
They  lay  imder  the  lamp  while  the  mosquitoes  fed. 

There  was  no  time  to  think  of  Mary,  none ; 
For  when  the  work  relaxed,  the  time  for  thought 
W  as  broken  up  by  men  demanding  fun : 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  39 

Cards,  or  a  well-kept  ring  while  someone  fought. 

Or  songs  and  dancing ;  or  a  case  was  bought 

Of  white  Brazilian  rum,  and  songs  and  cheers 

And  shots  and  oaths  rang  loud  upon  the  twitching  ears 

Of  the  hobbled  horses  hopping  to  their  feed. 

So  violent  images  displaced  the  rose 

In  Michael's  spirit ;  soon  he  took  the  lead ; 

None  was  more  apt  than  he  for  games  or  blows. 

Even  as  the  battle-seeking  bantam  crows. 

So  crowed  the  cockerel  of  his  mind  to  feel 

Life's  bonds  removed  and  blood  quick  in  him  toe  to  heel. 

But  sometimes  when  her  letters  came  to  him, 
Full  of  wise  tenderness  and  maiden  mind, 
He  felt  that  he  had  let  his  clearness  dim ; 
The  riot  with  the  cowboys  seemed  unkind 
To  that  far  faithful  heart ;  he  could  not  find 
Peace  in  the  thought  of  her ;  he  found  no  spur 
To  instant  upright  action  in  his  love  for  her. 


40  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

She  faded  to  the  memory  of  a  kiss, 

There  in  the  rough  life  among  foreign  faces ; 

Love  cannot  live  where  leisure  never  is ; 

He  could  not  write  to  her  from  savage  places, 

Where  drunken  mates  were  betting  on  the  aces, 

And  rum  went  roimd  and  smutty  songs  were  lifted. 

He  would  not  raise  her  banner  against  that ;  he  drifted. 

Ceasing,  in  time,  to  write,  ceasing  to  think. 

But  happy  in  the  wild  life  to  the  bone ; 

The  riding  in  vast  space,  the  songs,  the  drink. 

Some  careless  heart  beside  him  like  his  own. 

The  racing  and  the  fights,  the  ease  unknown 

In  older,  soberer  lands ;  his  young  blood  thrilled. 

The  pampas  seemed  his  own,  his  cup  of  joy  was  filled. 

And  one  day,  riding  far  after  strayed  horses. 

He  rode  beyond  the  ranges  to  a  land 

Broken  and  made  most  green  by  watercourses, 

Which  served  as  strayline  to  the  neighbouring  brand. 

A  house  stood  near  the  brook ;  he  stayed  his  hand, 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  41 

Seeing  a  woman  there,  whose  great  eyes  burned, 
So  that  he  could  not  choose   but  follow  when  she 
turned. 

After  that  day  he  often  rode  to  see 
That  woman  at  the  peach  farm  near  the  brook. 
And  passionate  love  between  them  came  to  be 
Ere  many  days.     Their  fill  of  love  they  took ; 
And  even  as  the  blank  leaves  of  a  book 
The  days  went  over  Mary,  day  by  day, 
Blank  as  the  last,  was  turned,  endured,  passed,  turned 
away. 

Spring  came  again  greening  the  hawthorn  buds ; 

The  shaking  flowers,  new-blossomed,  seemed  the  same. 

And  April  put  her  riot  in  yoimg  bloods ; 

The  jays  flapped  in  the  larch  clump  like  blue  flame. 

She  did  not  care ;  his  letter  never  came. 

Silent  she  went,  nursing  the  grief  that  kills. 

And  Lion  watched  her  pass  among  the  daffodils. 


42  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

IV 

Time  passed,  but  still  no  letter  came ;  she  ceased. 
Almost,  to  hope,  but  never  to  expect. 
The  June  moon  came  which  had  beheld  love's  feast. 
Then  waned,  like  it ;  the  meadow-grass  was  flecked 
With  moon-daisies,  which  died ;  little  she  recked 
Of  change  in  outward  things,  she  did  not  change ; 
Her  heart  still  knew  one  star,  one  hope,  it  did  not  range. 

Like  to  the  watery  hearts  of  tidal  men. 

Swayed  by  all  moons  of  beauty ;  she  was  firm. 

When  most  convinced  of  misery  firmest  then. 

She  held  a  light  not  subject  to  the  worm. 

The  pageant  of  the  summer  ran  its  term. 

The  last  stack  came  to  staddle  from  the  wain ; 

The  snow  fell,  the  snow  thawed,  the  year  began  again. 

With  the  wet  glistening  gold  of  celandines, 
And  snowdrops  pushing  from  the  withered  grass, 
Before  the  bud  upon  the  hawthorn  greens. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  43 

Or  blackbirds  go  to  building ;  but,  alas  ! 

No  spring  within  her  bosom  came  to  pass. 

"You're  going  like  a  ghost,"  her  father  said ; 

"  Now  put  him  out  of  mind,  and  be  my  prudent  maid." 

It  was  an  April  morning  brisk  with  wind. 
She  wandered  out  along  the  brook  sick-hearted. 
Picking  the  daffodils  where  the  water  dinned. 
While  overhead  the  first-come  swallow  darted. 
There,  at  the  place  where  all  the  passion  started. 
Where  love  first  knocked  about  her  maiden  heart, 
Yoimg  Lion  Occleve  hailed  her,  calling  her  apart 

To  see  his  tulips  at  The  Roughs,  and  take 

A  spray  of  flowering  currant ;  so  she  went. 

It  is  a  bitter  moment,  when  hearts  ache. 

To  see  the  loved  unhappy ;  his  intent 

Was  but  to  try  to  comfort  her ;  he  meant 

To  show  her  that  he  knew  her  heart's  despair, 

And  that  his  own  heart  bled  to  see  her  wretched  there. 


44  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

So,  as  they  talked,  he  asked  her,  had  she  heard 
From  Michael  lately  ?    No,  she  had  not ;  she 
Had  been  a  great  while  now,  without  a  word. 
"  No  news  is  always  good  news,"  answered  he. 
"You  know,"  he  said,  "how  much  you  mean  to  me ; 
You've  always  been  the  queen.    Oh,  if  I  could 
Do  anything  to  help,  my  dear,  you  know  I  would." 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  much  touched.     "But  you  be- 
lieve — 
You  still  believe  in  him  ?"     "Why,  yes,"  he  said. 
Lie  though  it  was  he  did  not  dare  deceive 
The  all  too  cruel  faith  within  the  maid. 
"  That  ranching  is  a  wild  and  lonely  trade. 
Far  from  all  posts ;  it  may  be  hard  to  send ; 
All  puzzling  things  like  this  prove  simple  in  the  end. 

"  We  should  have  heard  if  he  were  ill  or  dead. 
Keep  a  good  heart.    Now  come" ;  he  led  the  way 
Beyond  the  barton  to  the  calving-shed, 
Where,  on  a  strawy  litter  topped  with  hay, 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  45 

A  double-pedigree  prize  bull-calf  lay. 

"  Near  three  weeks  old,"  he  said,  "  the  Wrekin's  pet ; 

Come  up,  now,  son,  come  up ;  you  haven't  seen  him  yet. 

"  We  have  done  well,"  he  added,  "  with  the  stock, 
But  this  one,  if  he  lives,  will  make  a  name." 
The  bull-calf  gambolled  with  his  tail  acock, 
Then  shyly  nosed  towards  them,  scared  but  tame ; 
His  troublous  eyes  were  sulky  with  blue  flame. 
Softly  he  tiptoed,  shying  at  a  touch ; 
He  nosed,  his  breath  came  sweet,  his  pale  tongue  curled 
to  clutch. 

They  rubbed  his  head,  and  Mary  went  her  way. 
Counting  the  dreary  time,  the  dreary  beat 
Of  dreary  minutes  dragging  through  the  day ; 
Time  crawled  across  her  life  with  leaden  feet ; 
There  still  remained  a  year  before  her  sweet 
Would  come  to  claim  her ;  surely  he  would  come ; 
Meanwhile  there  was  the  year,  her  weakening  father, 
home. 


46  THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS 

Home  with  its  deadly  round,  with  all  its  setting, 
Things,  rooms,  and  fields  and  flowers  to  sting,  to  bum 
With  memories  of  the  love  time  past  forgetting 
Ere  absence  made  her  very  being  yearn. 
"My  love,  be  quick,"  she  moaned,  "return,  return ; 
Come  when  the  three  years  end,  oh,  my  dear  soul. 
It's  bitter,  wanting  you."    The  lonely  nights  took  toll, 

Putting  a  sadness  where  the  beauty  was, 

Taking  a  lustre  from  the  hair ;  the  days 

Saw  each  a  sadder  image  in  the  glass. 

And  when  December  came,  fouling  the  ways. 

And  ashless  beech-logs  made  a  Christmas  blaze, 

Some  talk  of  Michael  came ;  a  rumour  ran. 

Someone  had  called  him  "wild"  to  some  returning  man. 

Who,  travelling  through  that  cattle-range,  had  heard 
Nothing  more  sure  than  this ;  but  this  he  told 
At  second-hand  upon  a  cowboy's  word. 
It  struck  on  Mary's  heart  and  turned  her  cold. 
That  winter  was  an  age  which  made  her  old. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  47 

"  But  soon,"  she  thought,  "  soon  the  third  year  will  end ; 
March,  April,  May,  and  June,  then  I  shall  see  my  friend. 

"  He  promised  he  would  come ;  he  will  not  fail. 

Oh,  Michael,  my  beloved  man,  come  soon ; 

Stay  not  to  make  a  home  for  me,  but  sail. 

Love  and  the  hour  will  put  the  world  in  tune. 

You  in  my  life  for  always  is  the  boon 

I  ask  from  life  —  we  two,  together,  lovers." 

So  leaden  time  went  by  who  eats  things  and  discovers. 

Then,  in  the  winds  of  March,  her  father  rode. 
Hunting  the  Welland  country  on  Black  Ned ; 
The  tenor  cry  gave  tongue  past  Clencher's  Lode, 
And  on  he  galloped,  giving  the  nag  his  head ; 
Then,  at  the  brook,  he  fell,  was  picked  up  dead. 
Hounds  were  whipped  off;    men  muttered  with  one 

breath, 
"We  knew  that  hard-mouthed  brute  would  some  day 

be  his  death." 


48  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

They  bore  his  body  on  a  hurdle  home ; 
Then  came  the  burial,  then  the  sadder  day 
When  the  peaked  lawyer  entered  like  a  gnome. 
With  word  to  quit  and  lists  of  debts  to  pay. 
There  was  a  sale ;  the  Foxholes  passed  away 
To  strangers,  who  discussed  the  points  of  cows. 
Where  love  had  put  such  glory  on  the  lovers'  brows. 

Kind  Lion  Occleve  helped  the  maid's  affairs. 

Her  sorrow  brought  him  much  beside  her ;  he 

Caused  her  to  settle,  having  stilled  her  cares. 

In  the  long  cottage  under  Spital  Gree, 

He  had  no  hope  that  she  would  love  him ;  she 

Still  waited  for  her  lover,  but  her  eyes 

Thanked  Lion  to  the  soul ;  he  made  the  look  suffice. 

By  this  the  yearling  bull-calf  had  so  grown 
That  all  men  talked  of  him ;  mighty  he  grew, 
Huge-shouldered,  scaled  above  a  hundred  stone, 
With  deep  chest  many-wrinkled  with  great  thew, 
Plain-loined  and  playful-eyed  ;  the  Occleves  knew 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  49 

That  he  surpassed  his  pasture ;  breeders  came 

From  far  to  see  this  bull ;  he  brought  the  Occleves  fame. 

Till  a  meat-breeding  rancher  on  the  plains 

Where  Michael  wasted,  sent  to  buy  the  beast. 

Meaning  to  cross  his  cows  with  heavier  strains 

Until  his  yield  of  meat  and  bone  increased. 

He  paid  a  mighty  price ;  the  yearling  ceased 

To  be  the  wonder  of  the  countryside. 

He  sailed  in  Lion's  charge,  south,  to  the  Plate's  red  tide. 

There  Lion  landed  with  the  bull,  and  there 
The  great  beast  raised  his  head  and  bellowed  loud. 
Challenging  that  expanse  and  that  new  air ; 
Trembling,  but  full  of  wrath  and  thunder-browed. 
Far  from  the  daffodil  fields  and  friends,  but  proud, 
His  wild  eye  kindled  at  the  great  expanse. 
Two  scraps  of  Shropshire  life  they  stood  there;   their 
advance 

Was  slow  along  the  well-grassed  cattle  land, 
But  at  the  last  an  end  was  made ;  the  brute 

E 


50  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Ate  his  last  bread  crust  from  his  master's  hand, 
And  snuffed  the  foreign  herd  and  stamped  his  foot ; 
Steers  on  the  sweUing  ranges  gave  salute. 
The  great  bull  bellowed  back  and  Lion  turned ; 
His  task  was  now  to  find  where  Michael  lived;    he 
learned 

The  farm's  direction,  and  with  heavy  mind. 

Thinking  of  Mary  and  her  sorrow,  rode. 

Leaving  the  offspring  of  his  fields  behind. 

A  last  time  in  his  ears  the  great  bull  lowed. 

Then,  shaking  up  his  horse,  the  young  man  glowed 

To  see  the  unfenced  pampas  opening  out 

Grass  that  makes  old  earth  sing  and  all  the  valleys  shout. 

At  sunset  on  the  second  day  he  came 

To  that  white  cabin  in  the  peach-tree  plot 

Where  Michael  Uved ;  they  met,  the  Shropshire  name 

Rang  trebly  dear  in  that  outlandish  spot. 

Old  memories  swam  up  dear,  old  joys  forgot, 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  51 

Old  friends  were  real  again ;  but  Mary's  woe 
Came  into  Lion's  mind,  and  Michael  vexed  him  so. 

Talking  with  careless  freshness,  side  by  side 
With  that  dark  Spanish  beauty  who  had  won, 
As  though  no  heart-broke  woman,  heavy-eyed, 
Mourned  for  him  over  sea,  as  though  the  sun 
Shone  but  to  light  his  steps  to  love  and  fun, 
While  she,  that  golden  and  beloved  soul. 
Worth  ten  of  him,  lay  wasting  like  an  unlit  coal. 

So  supper  passed ;  the  meat  in  Lion's  gorge 

Stuck  at  the  last,  he  could  not  bide  that  face. 

The  idle  laughter  on  it  plied  the  forge 

Where  hate  was  smithying  tools ;  the  jokes,  the  place. 

Wrought  him  to  wrath ;  he  could  not  stay  for  grace. 

The  tin  mug  full  of  red  wine  spilled  and  fell. 

He  kicked  his  stool  aside  with  "  Michael,  this  is  hell. 

"  Come  out  into  the  night  and  talk  to  me." 
The  young  man  lit  a  cigarette  and  followed ; 
The  stars  seemed  trembling  at  a  brink  to  see ; 


62  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

A  little  ghostly  white-owl  stooped  and  holloed. 
Beside  the  stake-fence  Lion  stopped  and  swallowed, 
While  all  the  wrath  within  him  made  him  grey. 
Michael  stood  still  and  smoked,  and  flicked  his  ash  away. 

"  Well,  Lion,"  Michael  said,  "  men  make  mistakes. 

And  then  regret  them ;  and  an  early  flame 

Is  frequently  the  worst  mistake  man  makes. 

I  did  not  seek  this  passion,  but  it  came. 

Love  happens  so  in  life.    Well  ?    Who's  to  blame  ? 

You'll  say  I've  broken  Mary's  heart ;  the  heart 

Is  not  the  whole  of  life,  but  an  inferior  part, 

"Useful  for  some  few  years  and  then  a  curse. 

Nerves  should  be  stronger.     You  have  come  to  say 

The  three-year  term  is  up ;  so  much  the  worse. 

I  cannot  meet  the  bill ;  I  cannot  pay. 

I  would  not  if  I  could.     Men  change.     To-day 

I  know  that  that  first  choice,  however  sweet, 

Was  wrong  and  a  mistake ;  it  would  have  meant  defeat, 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  53 

"  Ruin  and  misery  to  us  both.    Let  be. 

You  say  I  should  have  told  her  this  ?    Perhaps. 

You  try  to  make  a  loving  woman  see 

That  the  warm  link  which  holds  you  to  her  snaps. 

Neglect  is  deadlier  than  the  thunder-claps. 

Yet  she  is  bright  and  I  am  water.    Well, 

I  did  not  make  myself ;  this  life  is  often  hell. 

"Judge  if  you  must,  but  understand  it  first. 
We  are  old  friends,  and  townsmen,  Shropshire  bom. 
Under  the  Wrekin.    You  believe  the  worst. 
You  have  no  knowledge  how  the  heart  is  torn. 
Trying  for  duty  up  against  the  thorn. 
Now  say  I've  broken  Mary's  heart :  begin. 
Break  hers,  or  hers  and  mine,  which  were  the  greater 
sin?" 

"Michael,"  said  Lion,  "I  have  heard  you.    Now 
Listen  to  me.    Three  years  ago  you  made 
With  a  most  noble  soul  a  certain  vow. 
Now  you  reject  it,  saying  that  you  played. 


54  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

She  did  not  think  so,  Michael,  she  has  stayed, 
Eating  her  heart  out  for  a  Hne,  a  word. 
News  that  you  were  not  dead ;   news  that  she  never 
heard. 

"  Not  once,  after  the  first.     She  has  held  firm 

To  what  you  counted  pastime ;  she  has  wept 

Life,  day  by  weary  day  throughout  the  term. 

While  her  heart  sickened,  and  the  clock-hand  crept. 

While  you,  you  with  your  woman  here,  have  kept 

Holiday,  feasting ;  you  are  fat ;  you  smile. 

You  have  had  love  and  laughter  all  the  ghastly  while. 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  England  six  weeks  hence. 

Standing  with  your  poor  Mary  face  to  face ; 

Far  from  a  pleasant  moment,  but  intense. 

I  shall  be  asked  to  tell  her  of  this  place. 

And  she  will  eye  me  hard  and  hope  for  grace, 

Some  little  crumb  of  comfort  while  I  tell ; 

And  every  word  will  burn  like  a  red  spark  from  hell, 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  65 

"  That  you  have  done  with  her,  that  you  are  living 

Here  with  another  woman ;  that  you  care 

Nought  for  the  pain  you've  given  and  are  giving ; 

That  all  your  lover's  vows  were  empty  air. 

This  I  must  tell :  thus  I  shall  bum  her  bare, 

Bum  out  all  hope,  all  comfort,  every  crumb, 

End  it,  and  watch  her  whiten,  hopeless,  tearless,  dumb. 

"Or  do  I  judge  you  wrongly  ?"    He  was  still. 
The  cigarette-end  glowed  and  dimmed  with  ash ; 
A  preying  night  bird  whimpered  on  the  hill. 
Michael  said  "  Ah  ! "  and  fingered  with  his  sash. 
Then  stilled.     The  night  was  still ;  there  came  no  flash 
Of  sudden  passion  bursting.     All  was  still ; 
A  lonely  water  gurgled  Hke  a  whip-poor-will. 

"Now  I  must  go,"  said  Lion ;  " where's  the  horse ?" 
"  There,"  said  his  friend ;   "  I'll  set  you  on  your  way." 
They  caught  and  rode,  both  silent,  while  remorse 
Worked  in  each  heart,  though  neither  would  betray 
What  he  was  feeling,  and  the  moon  came  grey. 


66  THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS 

Then  burned  into  an  opal  white  and  great, 
Silvering  the  downs  of  grass  where  these  two  travelled 
late, 

Thinking  of  English  fields  which  that  moon  saw. 

Fields  full  of  quiet  beauty  lying  hushed 

At  midnight  in  the  moment  full  of  awe, 

When  the  red  fox  comes  creeping,  dewy-brushed. 

But  neither  spoke ;  they  rode ;  the  horses  rushed. 

Scattering  the  great  clods  skywards  with  such  thrills 

As  colts  in  April  feel  there  in  the  daffodils. 


The  river  brimming  full  was  silvered  over 

By  moonlight  at  the  ford ;  the  river  bank 

Smelt  of  bruised  clote  buds  and  of  yellow  clover. 

Nosing  the  gleaming  dark  the  horses  drank. 

Drooping  and  dripping  as  the  reins  fell  lank ; 

The  men  drooped  too ;  the  stars  in  heaven  drooped ; 

Rank  after  hurrying  rank  the  silver  water  trooped 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  67 

In  ceaseless  bright  procession  past  the  shallows. 
Talking  its  quick  inconsequence.     The  friends, 
Warmed  by  the  gallop  on  the  unfenced  fallows. 
Felt  it  a  kindlier  thing  to  make  amends.  / 

"A  jolly  burst,"  said  Michael ;  "here  it  ends. 
Your  way  lies  straight  beyond  the  water.    There. 
Watch  for  the  lights,  and  keep  those  two  stars  as  they 
bear." 

Something  august  was  quick  in  all  that  sky. 
Wheeling  in  multitudinous  march  with  fire ; 
The  falling  of  the  wind  brought  it  more  nigh. 
They  felt  the  earth  take  solace  and  respire ; 
The  horses  shifted  foothold  in  the  mire, 
Splashing  and  making  eddies.  Lion  spoke : 
"  Do  you  remember  riding  past  the  haimted  oak 

"  That  Christmas  Eve,  when  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 
So  that  we  picked  out  seven  churches'  bells. 
Ringing  the  night,  and  people  carol-singing  ? 
It  hummed  and  died  away  and  rose  in  swells 


68  THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS 

Like  a  sea  breaking.     We  have  been  through  hells 
Since  then,  we  two,  and  now  this  being  here 
Brings  all  that  Christmas  back,  and  makes  it  strangely- 
near." 

"Yes,"  Michael  answered,  "they  were  happy  times. 

Riding  beyond  there ;  but  a  man  needs  change  ; 

I  know  what  they  connote,  those  Christmas  chimes, 

Fudge  in  the  heart,  and  pudding  in  the  grange. 

It  stifles  me  all  that ;  I  need  the  range. 

Like  this  before  us,  open  to  the  sky ; 

There  every  wing  is  clipped,  but  here  a  man  can  fly." 

"  Ah,"  said  his  friend,  "  man  only  flies  in  youth, 

A  few  short  years  at  most,  until  he  finds 

That  even  quiet  is  a  form  of  truth, 

And  all  the  rest  a  coloured  rag  that  blinds. 

Life  offers  nothing  but  contented  minds. 

Some  day  you'll  know  it,  Michael.     I  am  grieved 

That  Mary's  heart  will  pay  until  I  am  believed." 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  59 

There  was  a  silence  while  the  water  dripped 

From  the  raised  muzzles  champing  on  the  steel. 

Flogging  the  crannied  banks  the  water  lipped. 

Night  up  above  them  turned  her  starry  wheel ; 

And  each  man  feared  to  let  the  other  feel 

How  much  he  felt ;  they  fenced ;  they  put  up  bars. 

The  moon  made  heaven  pale  among  the  withering  stars. 

"Michael,"  said  Lion,  "why  should  we  two  part? 

Ride  on  with  me ;  or  shall  we  both  return. 

Make  preparation,  and  to-morrow  start. 

And  travel  home  together  ?    You  would  learn 

How  much  the  people  long  to  see  you ;  turn. 

We  will  ride  back  and  say  good-bye,  and  then 

Sail,  and  see  home  again,  and  see  the  Shropshire  men, 

"  And  see  the  old  Shropshire  mountain  and  the  fair. 
Full  of  drunk  Welshmen  bringing  mountain  ewes ; 
And  partridge  shooting  would  be  starting  there." 
Michael  hung  down  his  head  and  seemed  to  choose. 
The  horses  churned  fresh  footing  in  the  ooze. 


60  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Then  Michael  asked  if  Tom  were  still  alive, 

Old  Tom,  who  fought  the  Welshman  under  Upton  Drive, 

For  nineteen  roimds,  on  grass,  with  the  bare  hands  ? 
"  Shaky,"  said  Lion,  "  living  still,  but  weak ; 
Almost  past  speaking,  but  he  understands." 
"And  old  Shon  Shones  we  teased  so  with  the  leek ?" 
"Dead."     "When?"     "December."    Michael  did  not 

speak. 
But  muttered  "Old  Jones  dead."     A  minute  passed. 
"What  came  to  little  Sue,  his  girl  ?"   he  said  at  last. 

"  Got  into  trouble  with  a  man  and  died ; 

Her  sister  keeps  the  child."     His  hearer  stirred. 

"  Dead,  too  ?    She  was  a  pretty  girl,"  he  sighed, 

"  A  graceful  pretty  creature,  like  a  bird. 

What  is  the  child  ? "     "A  boy.     Her  sister  heard 

Too  late  to  help ;  poor  Susan  died ;  the  man 

None  knew  who  he  could  be,  but  many  rumours  ran." 

"  Ah,"  Michael  said.     The  horses  tossed  their  heads ; 
A  little  wind  arising  struck  in  chill ; 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  61 

"Time,"  he  began,  "that  we  were  in  our  beds." 
A  distant  heifer  challenged  from  the  hill, 
Scraped  at  the  earth  with  's  forefoot  and  was  still. 
"  Come  with  me,"  Lion  pleaded.     Michael  grinned ; 
He  turned  his  splashing  horse,  and  prophesied  a  wind. 

"  So  long,"  he  said,  and  "  Kind  of  you  to  call. 

Straight  on,  and  watch  the  stars" ;  his  horse's  feet 

Trampled  the  firmer  foothold,  ending  all. 

He  flung  behind  no  message  to  his  sweet. 

No  other  word  to  Lion ;  the  dull  beat 

Of  his  horse's  trample  drummed  upon  the  trail ; 

Lion  could  watch  him  drooping  in  the  moonlight  pale. 

Drooping  and  lessening ;  half  expectant  still 

That  he  would  turn  and  greet  him ;  but  no  sound 

Came,  save  the  lonely  water's  whip-poor-will 

And  the  going  horse  hoofs  dying  on  the  ground. 

"Michael,"  he  cried,  "Michael !"     A  lonely  mound 

Beyond  the  water  gave  him  back  the  cry. 

"  That's  at  an  end,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have  failed  her  —  T." 


62  THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS 

Soon  the  far  hoof-beats  died,  save  for  a  stir 
Half  heard,  then  lost,  then  still,  then  heard  again. 
A  quickening  rhythm  showed  he  plied  the  spur. 
Then  a  vast  breathing  silence  took  the  plain. 
The  moon  was  like  a  soul  within  the  brain 
Of  the  great  sleeping  world ;  silent  she  rode 
The  water  talked,  talked,  talked;    it  trembled  as  it 
flowed. 

A  moment  Lion  thought  to  ride  in  chase. 
He  turned,  then  turned  again,  knowing  his  friend. 
He  forded  through  with  death  upon  his  face. 
And  rode  the  plain  that  seemed  never  to  end. 
Clumps  of  pale  cattle  nosed  the  thing  unkenned, 
Riding  the  night ;  out  of  the  night  they  rose. 
Snuffing  with  outstretched  heads,  stamping  with  surly 
lows, 

Till  he  was  threading  through  a  crowd,  a  sea 
Of  curious  shorthorns  backing  as  he  came. 
Barring  his  path,  but  shifting  warily ; 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  63 

He  slapped  the  hairy  flanks  of  the  more  tame. 

Unreal  the  ghostly  cattle  lumbered  lame. 

His  horse  kept  at  an  even  pace ;  the  cows 

Broke  right  and  left  like  waves  before  advancing  bows. 

Lonely  the  pampas  seemed  amid  that  herd. 

The  thought  of  Mary's  sorrow  pricked  him  sore ; 

He  brought  no  comfort  for  her,  not  a  word ; 

He  would  not  ease  her  pain,  but  bring  her  more. 

The  long  miles  dropped  behind ;  lights  rose  before. 

Lights  and  the  seaport  and  the  briny  air ; 

And  so  he  sailed  for  home  to  comfort  Mary  there. 
******  0 

When  Mary  knew  the  worst  she  only  sighed. 
Looked  hard  at  Lion's  face,  and  sat  quite  still. 
White  to  the  lips,  but  stem  and  stony-eyed. 
Beaten  by  life  in  all  things  but  the  will. 
Though  the  blow  struck  her  hard  it  did  not  kill. 
She  rallied  on  herself,  a  new  life  bloomed 
Out  of  the  ashy  heart  where  Michael  lay  entombed. 


64  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  more  than  this :  for  Lion  touched  a  sense 

That  he,  the  honest  humdrum  man,  was  more 

Than  he  by  whom  the  glory  and  the  offence 

Came  to  her  life  three  bitter  years  before. 

This  was  a  treason  in  her  being's  core ; 

It  smouldered  there ;  meanwhile  as  two  good  friends 

They  met  at  autumn  dusks  and  winter  daylight-ends. 

And  once,  after  long  twilight  talk,  he  broke 
His  strong  restraint  upon  his  passion  for  her. 
And  bumingly,  most  like  a  man  he  spoke. 
Until  her  pity  almost  overbore  her. 
It  could  not  be,  she  said ;  her  pity  tore  her ; 
But  still  it  could  not  be,  though  this  was  pain. 
Then  on  a  frosty  night  they  met  and  spoke  again. 

And  then  he  wooed  again,  clutching  her  hands, 
Calling  the  maid  his  mind,  his  heart,  his  soul. 
Saying  that  God  had  linked  their  lives  in  bands 
When  the  worm  Life  first  started  from  the  goal ; 
That  they  were  linked  together,  past  control. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  65 

Linked  from  all  time,  could  she  but  pity ;  she 
Pitied  him  from  the  soul,  but  said  it  could  not  be. 

"Mary,"  he  asked,  "you  cannot  love  me ?    No  ?" 

"No,"  she  replied ;  "would  God  I  could,  my  dear." 

"  God  bless  you,  then,"  he  answered,  "  I  must  go. 

Go  over  sea  to  get  away  from  here, 

I  cannot  think  of  work  when  you  are  near ; 

My  whole  life  falls  to  pieces ;  it  must  end. 

This  meeting  now  must  be  'good-bye,'  beloved  friend." 

White-lipped  she  listened,  then  with  failing  breath, 

She  asked  for  yet  a  little  time ;  her  face 

Was  even  as  that  of  one  condemned  to  death. 

She  asked  for  yet  another  three  months'  grace. 

Asked  it,  as  Lion  inly  knew,  in  case 

Michael  should  still  return ;  and  "  Yes  "  said  he, 

"  I'll  wait  three  months  for  you,  beloved ;  let  it  be." 

Slowly  the  three  months  dragged  :  no  Michael  came. 
March  brought  the  daffodils  and  set  them  shaking. 
April  was  quick  in  Nature  like  green  flame ; 


66  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

May  came  with  dog-rose  buds,  and  corncrakes  craking, 
Then  dwindled  like  her  blossom ;  June  was  breaking. 
"  Mary,"  said  Lion,  "  can  you  answer  now  ?  " 
White  like  a  ghost  she  stood,  he  long  remembered  how. 

Wild-eyed  and  white,  and  trembling  like  a  leaf. 
She  gave  her  answer,  "Yes" ;  she  gave  her  lips, 
Cold  as  a  corpse's  to  the  kiss  of  grief, 
Shuddering  at  him  as  if  his  touch  were  whips. 
Then  her  best  nature,  struggling  to  eclipse 
This  shrinking  self,  made  speech ;  she  jested  there ; 
They  searched  each  other's  eyes,  and  both  souls  saw 
despair. 

So  the  first  passed,  and  after  that  began 

A  happier  time :  she  could  not  choose  but  praise 

That  recognition  of  her  in  the  man 

Striving  to  salve  her  pride  in  myriad  ways ; 

He  was  a  gentle  lover :  gentle  days 

Passed  like  a  music  after  tragic  scenes ; 


THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS  67 

Her  heart  gave  thanks  for  that;   but  still  the  might- 
have-beens 

Haunted  her  inner  spirit  day  and  night, 

And  often  in  his  kiss  the  memory  came 

Of  Michael's  face  above  her,  passionate,  white, 

His  lips  at  her  lips  murmuring  her  name, 

Then  she  would  suffer  sleepless,  sick  with  shame. 

And  struggle  with  her  weakness.     She  had  vowed 

To  give  herself  to  Lion ;  she  was  true  and  proud. 

He  should  not  have  a  woman  sick  with  ghosts. 
But  one  finn-minded  to  be  his ;  so  time 
Passed  one  by  one  the  summer's  marking  posts. 
The  dog-rose  and  the  foxglove  and  the  lime. 
Then  on  a  day  the  church-bells  rang  a  chime. 
Men  fired  the  bells  till  all  the  valley  filled 
With  bell-noise  from  the  belfry  where  the  jackdaws 
build. 

Lion  and  she  were  married ;  home  they  went. 
Home  to  The  Roughs  as  man  and  wife ;  the  news 


68  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Was  printed  in  the  paper.     Mary  sent 
A  copy  out  to  Michael.    Now  we  lose 
Sight  of  her  for  a  time,  and  the  great  dews 
Fall,  and  the  harvest-moon  grows  red  and  fills 
Over  the  barren  fields  where  March  brings  daffodils. 


VI 

The  rider  lingered  at  the  fence  a  moment, 
Tossed  out  the  pack  to  Michael,  whistUng  low. 
Then  rode,  waving  his  hand,  without  more  comment, 
Down  the  vast  grey-green  pampas  sloping  slow. 
Michael's  last  news  had  come  so  long  ago, 
He  wondered  who  had  written  now ;  the  hand 
Thrilled  him  with  vague  alarm,  it  brought  him  to  a 
stand. 

He  opened  it  with  one  eye  on  the  hut, 
Lest  she  within  were  watching  him,  but  she 
Was  combing  out  her  hair,  the  door  was  shut. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  ( 

The  green  sun-shutters  closed,  she  could  not  see. 
Out  fell  the  love-tryst  handkerchief  which  he 
Had  had  embroidered  with  his  name  for  her ; 
It  had  been  dearly  kept,  it  smelt  of  lavender. 

Something  remained  :  a  paper,  crossed  with  blue. 

Where  he  should  read ;  he  stood  there  in  the  sun, 

Reading  of  Mary's  wedding  till  he  knew 

What  he  had  cast  away,  what  he  had  done. 

He  was  rejected.  Lion  was  the  one. 

Lion,  the  godly  and  the  upright,  he. 

The  black  lines  in  the  paper  showed  how  it  could  be. 

He  pocketed  the  love  gift  and  took  horse. 
And  rode  out  to  the  pay-shed  for  his  savings. 
Then  turned,  and  rode  a  lonely  water-course, 
Alone  with  bitter  thoughts  and  bitter  cravings. 
Sun-shadows  on  the  reeds  made  twinkling  wavings ; 
An  orange-bellied  turtle  scooped  the  mud ; 
Mary  had  married  Lion,  and  the  news  drew  blood. 


70  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  with  the  bitterness,  the  outcast  felt 

A  passion  for  those  old  kind  Shropshire  places, 

The  ruined  chancel  where  the  nuns  had  knelt ; 

High  Ercall  and  the  Chase  End  and  the  Chases, 

The  glimmering  mere,  the  burr,  the  well-known  faces, 

By  Wrekin  and  by  Zine,  and  country  town. 

The  orange-bellied  turtle  burrowed  further  down. 

He  could  remember  Mary  now ;  her  crying 
Night  after  night  alone  through  weary  years, 
Had  touched  him  now  and  set  the  cords  replying ; 
He  knew  her  misery  now,  her  ache,  her  tears. 
The  lonely  nights,  the  ceaseless  hope,  the  fears. 
The  arm  stretched  out  for  one  not  there,  the  slow 
Loss  of  the  lover's  faith,  the  letting  comfort  go. 

"Now  I  will  ride,"  he  said.     Beyond  the  ford 
He  caught  a  fresh  horse  and  rode  on.     The  night 
Found  him  a  guest  at  Pepe  Blanco's  board, 
Moody  and  drinking  rum  and  ripe  for  fight ; 
Drawing  his  gun,  he  shot  away  the  light, 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  71 

And  parried  Pepe's  knife  and  caught  his  horse, 
And  all  night  long  he  rode  bedevilled  by  remorse. 

At  dawn  he  caught  an  eastward-going  ferry. 

And  all  day  long  he  steamed  between  great  banks 

Which  smelt  of  yellow  thorn  and  loganberry. 

Then  wharves  appeared,  and  chimneys  rose  in  ranks. 

Mast  upon  mast  arose ;  the  river's  flanks 

Were  filled  with  English  ships,  and  one  he  found 

Needing  another  stoker,  being  homeward  bound. 

And  all  the  time  the  trouble  in  his  head 
Ran  like  a  whirlwind  moving  him ;  he  knew 
Since  she  was  lost  that  he  was  better  dead. 
He  had  no  project  outlined,  what  to  do, 
Beyond  go  home ;  he  joined  the  steamer's  crew. 
She  sailed  that  night :  he  dulled  his  maddened  soul. 
Plying  the  iron  coal-slice  on  the  bunker  coal. 

Work  did  not  clear  the  turmoil  in  his  mind ; 
Passion  takes  colour  from  the  nature's  core ; 


72  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

His  misery  was  as  his  nature,  blind. 

Life  was  still  turmoil  when  he  went  ashore. 

To  see  his  old  love  married  lay  before ; 

To  see  another  have  her,  drink  the  gall, 

Kicked  like  a  dog  without,  while  he  within  had  all. 


Soon  he  was  at  the  Foxholes,  at  the  place 
Whither,  from  over  sea,  his  heart  had  turned 
Often  at  evening-ends  in  times  of  grace. 
But  little  outward  change  his  eye  discerned ; 
A  red  rose  at  her  bedroom  window  burned. 
Just  as  before.    Even  as  of  old  the  wasps 
Poised  at  the  yellow  plums :   the  gate  creaked  on  its 
hasps. 

And  the  white  fantails  sidled  on  the  roof 
Just  as  before ;  their  pink  feet,  even  as  of  old. 
Printed  the  frosty  morning's  rime  with  proof. 
Still  the  zew-tallat's  thatch  was  green  with  mould ; 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  73 

The  apples  on  the  withered  boughs  were  gold. 

Men  and  the  times  were  changed :  "  And  I,"  said  he, 

"  Will  go  and  not  return,  since  she  is  not  for  me. 

"  I'll  go,  for  it  would  be  a  scurvy  thing 

To  spoil  her  marriage,  and  besides,  she  cares 

For  that  half -priest  she  married  with  the  ring. 

Small  joy  for  me  in  seeing  how  she  wears. 

Or  seeing  what  he  takes  and  what  she  shares. 

That  beauty  and  those  ways :  she  had  such  ways, 

There  in  the  daffodils  in  those  old  April  days." 

So  with  an  impulse  of  good  will  he  turned, 
Leaving  that  place  of  daffodils ;  the  road 
Was  paven  sharp  with  memories  which  burned ; 
He  trod  them  strongly  under  as  he  strode. 
At  the  Green  Turning's  forge  the  furnace  glowed ; 
Red  dithying  sparks  flew  from  the  crumpled  soft 
Fold  from  the  fire's  heart ;  down  clanged  the  hammers 
oft. 


74  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

That  was  a  bitter  place  to  pass,  for  there 
Mary  and  he  had  often,  often  stayed 
To  watch  the  horseshoe  growing  in  the  glare. 
It  was  a  tryst  in  childhood  when  they  strayed. 
There  was  a  stile  beside  the  forge ;  he  laid 
His  elbows  on  it,  leaning,  looking  down 
The  river-valley  stretched  with  great  trees  turning 
brown. 

Infinite,  too,  because  it  reached  the  sky. 
And  distant  spires  arose  and  distant  smoke ; 
The  whiteness  on  the  blue  went  stilly  by ; 
Only  the  clinking  forge  the  stillness  broke. 
Ryemeadows  brook  was  there ;  The  Roughs,  the  oak 
Where   the   White   Woman   walked;    the   black   firs 

showed 
Around  the  Occleve  homestead  Mary's  new  abode. 

A  long,  long  time  he  gazed  at  that  fair  place. 
So  well  remembered  from  of  old ;  he  sighed. 
*'  I  will  go  down  and  look  upon  her  face. 


THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS  75 

See  her  again,  whatever  may  betide. 

Hell  is  my  future ;  I  shall  soon  have  died. 

But  I  will  take  to  hell  one  memory  more ; 

She  shall  not  see  nor  know ;  I  shall  be  gone  before  ; 

"  Before  they  turn  the  dogs  upon  me,  even. 

I  do  not  mean  to  speak ;  but  only  see. 

Even  the  devil  gets  a  peep  at  heaven ; 

One  peep  at  her  shall  come  to  hell  with  me ; 

One  peep  at  her,  no  matter  what  may  be." 

He  crossed  the  stile  and  hurried  down  the  slope. 

Remembered  trees  and  hedges  gave  a  zest  to  hope. 


A  low  brick  wall  with  privet  shrubs  beyond 
Ringed  in  The  Roughs  upon  the  side  he  neared. 
Eastward  some  bramble  bushes  cloaked  the  pond ; 
Westward  was  barley-stubble  not  yet  cleared. 
He  thrust  aside  the  privet  boughs  and  peered. 
The  drooping  fir  trees  let  their  darkness  trail 
Black  like  a  pirate's  masts  bound  under  easy  sail. 


76  TBE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  garden  with  its  autumn  flowers  was  there ; 

Few  that  his  wayward  memory  Unked  with  her. 

Summer  had  burnt  the  summer  flowers  bare, 

But  honey-hunting  bees  still  made  a  stir. 

Sprigs  were  still  bluish  on  the  lavender, 

And  bluish  daisies  budded,  bright  flies  poised ; 

The  wren  upon  the  tree-stump  carolled  cheery-voiced. 

He  could  not  see  her  there.     Windows  were  wide, 

Late  wasps  were  cruising,  and  the  curtains  shook. 

Smoke,  like  the  house's  breathing,  floated,  sighed ; 

Among  the  trembling  firs  strange  ways  it  took. 

But  still  no  Mary's  presence  blessed  his  look ; 

The  house  was  still  as  if  deserted,  hushed. 

Faint  fragrance  hung  about  it  as  if  herbs  were  crushed. 

Fragrance  that  gave  his  memory's  guard  a  hint 
Of  times  long  past,  of  reapers  in  the  corn. 
Bruising  with  heavy  boots  the  stalks  of  mint. 
When  first  the  berry  reddens  on  the  thorn. 
Memories  of  her  that  fragrance  brought.     Forlorn 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  77 

That  vigil  of  the  watching  outcast  grew ; 

He  crept  towards  the  kitchen,  sheltered  by  a  yew. 

The  windows  of  the  kitchen  opened  wide. 
Again  the  fragrance  came ;  a  woman  spoke ; 
Old  Mrs.  Occleve  talked  to  one  inside. 
A  smell  of  cooking  filled  a  gust  of  smoke. 
Then  fragrance  once  again,  for  herbs  were  broke ; 
Pourri  was  being  made ;  the  listener  heard 
Things  lifted  and  laid  down,  bruised  into  sweetness, 
stirred. 

While  an  old  woman  made  remarks  to  one 
Who  was  not  the  beloved :  Michael  learned 
That  Roger's  wife  at  Upton  had  a  son, 
And  that  the  red  geraniums  should  be  turned ; 
A  hen  was  missing,  and  a  rick  was  burned ; 
Our  Lord  commanded  patience ;  here  it  broke ; 
The   window  closed,   it    made  the  kitchen  chimney 
smoke. 


78  THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS 

Steps  clacked  on  flagstones  to  the  outer  door ; 

A  dairy-maid,  whom  he  remembered  well, 

Lined,  now,  with  age,  and  greyer  than  before. 

Rang  a  cracked  cow-bell  for  the  dinner-bell. 

He  saw  the  dining-room ;  he  could  not  tell 

If  Mary  were  within :  inly  he  knew 

That  she  was  coming  now,  that  she  would  be  in  blue. 

Blue  with  a  silver  locket  at  the  throat. 
And  that  she  would  be  there,  within  there,  near, 
With  the  little  blushes  that  he  knew  by  rote, 
And  the  grey  eyes  so  steadfast  and  so  dear. 
The  voice,  pure  like  the  nature,  true  and  clear. 
Speaking  to  her  belov'd  within  the  room. 
The  gate  clicked.  Lion  came :   the  outcast  hugged  the 
gloom. 

Watching  intently  from  below  the  boughs,"" 
While  Lion  cleared  his  riding-boots  of  clay, 
Eyed  the  high  clouds  and  went  within  the  house. 
His  eyes  looked  troubled,  and  his  hair  looked  gray. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  79 

Dinner  began  within  with  much  to  say. 
Old  Occ'leve  roared  aloud  at  his  own  joke. 
Mary,  it  seemed,  was  gone;    the  loved  voice  never 
spoke. 

Nor  could  her  lover  see  her  from  the  yew ; 
She  was  not  there  at  table ;  she  was  ill, 
111,  or  away  perhaps  —  he  wished  he  knew. 
Away,  perhaps,  for  Occleve  bellowed  still. 
"If  sick,"  he  thought,  "the  maid  or  Lion  will 
Take  food  to  her."     He  watched ;  the  dinner  ended. 
The  staircase  was  not  used;    none  climbed  it,  none 
descended. 

"Not  here,"  he  thought;  but  wishing  to  be  sure. 

He  waited  till  the  Occleves  went  to  field. 

Then  followed,  round  the  house,  another  lure. 

Using  the  well-known  privet  as  his  shield. 

He  meant  to  run  a  risk ;  his  heart  was  steeled. 

He  knew  of  old  which  bedroom  would  be  hers ; 

He  crouched  upon  the  north  front  in  among  the  firs. 


80  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  house  stared  at  him  with  its  red-brick  blank, 

Its  vacant  window-eyes ;  its  open  door, 

With  old  wrought  bridle  ring-hooks  at  each  flank, 

Swayed  on  a  creaking  hinge  as  the  wind  bore. 

Nothing  had  changed ;  the  house  was  as  before, 

The  dull  red  brick,  the  windows  sealed  or  wide : 

"  I  will  go  in,"  he  said.     He  rose  and  stepped  inside. 

None  could  have  seen  him  coming ;  all  was  still ; 

He  listened  in  the  doorway  for  a  sign. 

Above,  a  rafter  creaked,  a  stir,  a  thrill 

Moved,  till  the  frames  clacked  on  the  picture  line. 

"Old  Mother  Occleve  sleeps,  the  servants  dine," 

He  muttered,  listening.     "Hush."     A  silence  brooded. 

Far  off  the  kitchen  dinner  clattered ;  he  intruded. 

Still,  to  his  right,  the  best  room  door  was  locked. 
Another  door  was  at  his  left ;  he  stayed. 
Within,  a  stately  timepiece  ticked  and  tocked. 
To  one  who  slumbered  breathing  deep ;  it  made 
An  image  of  Time's  going  and  man's  trade. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  81 

He  looked :  Old  Mother  Oecleve  lay  asleep, 

Hands  crossed  upon  her  knitting,  rosy,  breathing  deep. 

He  tiptoed  up  the  stairs  which  creaked  and  cracked. 
The  landing  creaked ;  the  shut  doors,  painted  grey. 
Loomed,  as  if  shutting  in  some  dreadful  act. 
The  nodding  frames  seemed  ready  to  betray. 
The  east  room  had  been  closed  in  Michael's  day. 
Being  the  best ;  but  now  he  guessed  it  hers ; 
The  fields  of  daffodils  lay  next  it,  past  the  firs. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  landing,  Lion  cried. 
Somewhere  below,  "I'll  get  it."    Lion's  feet 
Struck  on  the  flagstones  with  a  hasty  stride. 
"He's  coming  up,"  thought  Michael,  "we  shall  meet." 
He  snatched  the  nearest  door  for  his  retreat, 
Opened  with  thieves'  swift  silence,  dared  not  close. 
But  stood  within,  behind  it.    Lion's  footsteps  rose. 

Running  two  steps  at  once,  while  Michael  stood. 
Not  breathing,  only  knowing  that  the  room 
Was  someone's  bedroom  smelling  of  old  wood, 


82  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Hung  with  engravings  of  the  day  of  doom. 

The  footsteps  stopped ;  and  Lion  called,  to  whom  ? 

A  gentle  question,  tapping  at  a  door. 

And  Michael  shifted  feet,  and  creakings  took  the  floor. 

The  footsteps  recommenced,  a  door-catch  clacked ; 
Within  an  eastern  room  the  footsteps  passed. 
Drawers  were  pulled  loudly  open  and  ransacked. 
Chattels  were  thrust  aside  and  overcast. 
What  could  the  thing  be  that  he  sought .     At  last 
His  voice  said,  "  Here  it  is."    The  wormM  floor 
Creaked  with  returning  footsteps  down  the  corridor. 

The  footsteps  came  as  though  the  walker  read. 
Or  added  rows  of  figures  by  the  way ; 
There  was  much  hesitation  in  the  tread ; 
Lion  seemed  pondering  which,  to  go  or  stay ; 
Then,  seeing  the  door,  which  covered  Michael,  sway. 
He  swiftly  crossed  and  shut  it.     "  Always  one 
For  order,"  Michael  muttered.     "Now  be  swift,  my 
son. 


THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS  83 

The  action  seemed  to  break  the  walker's  mood ; 

The  footsteps  passed  downstairs,  along  the  hall, 

Out  at  the  door  and  off  towards  the  wood. 

"  Gone,"  Michael  muttered.     "  Now  to  hazard  all." 

Outside,  the  frames  still  nodded  on  the  wall. 

Michael  stepped  swiftly  up  the  floor  to  try 

The  door  where  Lion  tapped  and  waited  for  reply. 

It  was  the  eastmost  of  the  rooms  which  look 

Over  the  fields  of  daffodils ;  the  bound 

Scanned  from  its  windows  is  Ryemeadows  brook. 

Banked  by  gnarled  apple  trees  and  rising  ground. 

Most  gently  Michael  tapped ;  he  heard  no  sound, 

Only  the  blind-pull  tapping  with  the  wind ; 

The  kitchen-door  was  opened ;  kitchen-clatter  dinned. 

A  woman  walked  along  the  hall  below, 
Humming ;  a  maid,  he  judged ;  the  footsteps  died. 
Listening  intently  still,  he  heard  them  go. 
Then  swiftly  turned  the  knob  and  went  inside. 
The  blind-pull  at  the  window  volleyed  wide ; 


84  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  curtains  streamed  out  like  a  waterfall ; 

The  pictures  of  the  foxhunt  clacked  along  the  wall. 

No  one  was  there ;  no  one ;  the  room  was  hers. 

A  book  of  praise  lay  open  on  the  bed ; 

The  clothes-press  smelt  of  many  lavenders, 

Her  spirit  stamped  the  room ;  herself  was  fled. 

Here  she  found  peace  of  soul  like  daily  bread. 

Here,  with  her  lover  Lion ;  Michael  gazed ; 

He  would  have  been  the  sharer  had  he  not  been  crazed. 

He  took  the  love-gift  handkerchief  again ; 
He  laid  it  on  her  table,  near  the  glass. 
So  opened  that  the  broidered  name  was  plain ; 
"  Plain,"  he  exclaimed,  "  she  cannot  let  it  pass. 
It  stands  and  speaks  for  me  as  bold  as  brass. 
My  answer,  my  heart's  cry,  to  tell  her  this. 
That  she  is  still  my  darling :  all  she  was  she  is. 

"  So  she  will  know  at  least  that  she  was  wrong. 
That  underneath  the  blindness  I  was  true. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  86 

Fate  is  the  strongest  thing,  though  men  are  strong ; 

Out  from  beyond  life  I  was  sealed  to  you. 

But  my  blind  ways  destroyed  the  cords  that  drew ; 

And  now,  the  evil  done,  I  know  my  need ; 

Fate  has  his  way  with  those  who  mar  what  is  decreed. 

"  And  now,  good-bye."    He  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
Then  stept,  with  firm  swift  footstep  down  the  stair. 
Meaning  to  go  where  she  would  never  find  him ; 
He  would  go  down  through  darkness  to  despair. 
Out  at  the  door  he  stept ;  the  autumn  air 
Came  fresh  upon  his  face ;  none  saw  him  go. 
"Good-bye,  my  love,"  he  muttered ;  "it  is  better  so." 

Soon  he  was  on  the  high  road,  out  of  sight 

Of  valley  and  farm ;  soon  he  could  see  no  more 

The  oast-house  pointing  finger  take  the  light 

As  tumbling  pigeons  glittered  over ;  nor 

Could  he  behold  the  wind-vane  gilded  o'er. 

Swinging  above  the  church ;  the  road  swimg  round. 

"  Now,  the  last  look," he  cried :  he  saw  that  holy  ground. 


86  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

"  Good-bye,"  he  cried ;  he  could  behold  it  all. 

Spread  out  as  in  a  picture ;  but  so  clear 

That  the  gold  apple  stood  out  from  the  wall ; 

Like  a  red  jewel  stood  the  grazing  steer. 

Precise,  intensely  coloured,  all  brought  near. 

As  in  a  vision,  lay  that  holy  ground. 

"  Mary  is  there,"  he  moaned,  "  and  I  am  outward  bound. 

"  I  never  saw  this  place  so  beautiful, 

Never  like  this.     I  never  saw  it  glow. 

Spirit  is  on  this  place ;  it  fills  it  full. 

So  let  the  die  be  cast ;  I  will  not  go. 

But  I  will  see  her  face  to  face  and  know 

From  her  own  lips  what  thoughts  she  has  of  me ; 

And  if  disaster  come :  right ;  let  disaster  be." 

Back,  by  another  way,  he  turned.     The  sun 
Fired  the  yew-tops  in  the  Roman  woods. 
Lights  in  the  valley  twinkled  one  by  one, 
The  starlings  whirled  in  dropping  multitudes. 
Dusk  fingered  into  one  earth's  many  moods. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  87 

Back  to  The  Roughs  he  walked ;  he  neared  the  brook ; 
A  lamp  burned  in  the  farm ;  he  saw ;  his  fingers  shook. 

He  had  to  cross  the  brook,  to  cross  a  field, 
Where  daffodils  were  thick  when  years  were  young. 
Then,  were  she  there,  his  fortunes  should  be  sealed. 
Down  the  mud  trackway  to  the  brook  he  swung ; 
Then  while  the  passion  trembled  on  his  tongue. 
Dim,  by  the  dim  bridge-stile,  he  seemed  to  see 
A  figure  standing  mute ;  a  woman  —  it  was  she. 

She  stood  quite  stilly,  waiting  for  him  there. 
She  did  not  seem  surprised ;  the  meeting  seemed 
Planned  from  all  time  by  powers  in  the  air 
To  change  their  human  fates ;  he  even  deemed 
That  in  another  life  this  thing  had  gleamed, 
This  meeting  by  the  bridge.     He  said,  "  It's  you." 
"  Yes,  I,"  she  said,  "  who  else  ?    You  must  have  known ; 
you  knew 

"  That  I  should  come  here  to  the  brook  to  see. 
After  your  message."     "You  were  out,"  he  said. 


88  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

"  Gone,  and  I  did  not  know  where  you  could  be. 
Where  were  you,  Mary,  when  the  thing  was  laid  ?  " 
"Old  Mrs.  Cale  is  dying,  and  I  stayed 
Longer  than  usual,  while  I  read  the  Word. 
You  could  have  hardly  gone."     She  paused,  her  bosom 
stirred. 

"Mary,  I  sinned,"  he  said.     "Not  that,  dear,  no," 
She  said ;   "  but,  oh,  you  were  unkind,  unkind, 
Never  to  write  a  word  and  leave  me  so, 
But  out  of  sight  with  you  is  out  of  mind." 
"  Mary,  I  sinned,"  he  said,  "  and  I  was  blind. 
Oh,  my  beloved,  are  you  Lion's  wife  ?  " 
"Belov'd  sounds  strange,"  she  answered,  "in  my  pres- 
ent life. 

"  But  it  is  sweet  to  hear  it,  all  the  same. 

It  is  a  language  little  heard  by  me 

Alone,  in  that  man's  keeping,  with  my  shame. 

I  never  thought  such  miseries  could  be. 

I  was  so  happy  in  you,  Michael.     He 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  89 

Came  when  I  felt  you  changed  from  what  I  thought  you. 
Even  now  it  is  not  love,  but  jealousy  that  brought  you." 

"  That  is  untrue,"  he  said.     "  I  am  in  hell. 

You  are  my  heart's  beloved,  Mary,  you. 

By  God,  I  know  your  beauty  now  too  well. 

We  are  each  other's,  flesh  and  soul,  we  two." 

"  That  was  sweet  knowledge  once,"  she  said ;  "  we  knew 

That  truth  of  old.     Now,  in  a  strange  man's  bed, 

I  read  it  in  my  soul,  and  find  it  written  red." 

"  Is  he  a  brute  ?  "  he  asked.     "  No,"  she  replied. 

"  I  did  not  understand  what  it  would  mean. 

And  now  that  you  are  back,  would  I  had  died ; 

Died,  and  the  misery  of  it  not  have  been. 

Lion  would  not  be  wrecked,  nor  I  unclean. 

I  was  a  proud  one  once,  and  now  I'm  tame ; 

Oh,  Michael,  say  some  word  to  take  away  my  shame." 

She  sobbed ;  his  arms  went  round  her ;  the  night  heard 
Intense  fierce  whispering  passing,  soul  to  soul, 
Love  running  hot  on  many  a  murmured  word, 


90  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Love's  passionate  giving  into  new  control. 
Their  present  misery  did  but  blow  the  coal. 
Did  but  entangle  deeper  their  two  wills, 
While  the  brown  brook  ran  on  by  buried  daffodils. 

vn 

Upon  a  light  gust  came  a  waft  of  bells, 

Ringing  the  chimes  for  nine ;  a  broken  sweet. 

Like  waters  bubbling  out  of  hidden  wells, 

Dully  upon  those  lovers'  ears  it  beat. 

Their  time  was  at  an  end.     Her  tottering  feet 

Trod  the  dim  field  for  home ;  he  sought  an  inn. 

"Oh,  I  have  sinned,"  she  cried,  "but  not  a  secret  sin." 

Inside  The  Roughs  they  waited  for  her  coming ; 

Eyeing  the  ticking  clock  the  household  sat. 

"  Nine,"  the  clock  struck ;  the  clock-weights  ran  down 

drumming ; 
Old  Mother  Occleve  stretched  her  sewing  flat. 
"  It's  nine,"  she  said.     Old  Occleve  stroked  the  cat. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  91 

"Ah,  cat,"  he  said,  "hast  had  good  go  at  mouse  ?" 
Lion  sat  listening  tense  to  all  within  the  house. 

"Mary  is  late  to-night,"  the  gammer  said. 

"  The  times  have  changed,"  her  merry  husband  roared. 

"  Young  married  couples  now  like  lonely  trade. 

Don't  think  of  bed  at  all,  they  think  of  board. 

No  multiplying  left  in  people.     Lord  ! 

WTien  I  was  Lion's  age  I'd  had  my  five. 

There  was  some  go  in  folk  when  us  two  took  to  wive." 

Lion  arose  and  stalked  and  bit  his  lip. 

**  Or  was  it  six  ?  "  the  old  man  muttered,  "  six. 

Us  had  so  many  I've  alost  the  tip. 

Us  were  two  right  good  souls  at  getting  chicks. 

Two    births    of    twins,    then    Johnny's   birth,    then 

Dick's"  .  .  . 
"  Now  give  a  young  man  time,"  the  mother  cried. 
Mary  came  swiftly  in  and  flung  the  room  door  wide. 

lion  was  by  the  window  when  she  came. 
Old  Occleve  and  his  wife  were  by  the  fire ; 


92  THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS 

Big  shadows  leapt  the  ceiHng  from  the  flame. 
She  fronted  the  three  figures  and  came  nigher. 
"Lion,"  she  whispered,  "I  return  my  hire." 
She  dropped  her  marriage-ring  upon  the  table. 
Then,  in  a  louder  voice,  "  I  bore  what  I  was  able, 

"  And  Time  and  marriage  might  have  worn  me  down. 

Perhaps,  to  be  a  good  wife  and  a  blest, 

With  little  children  clinging  to  my  gown. 

And  little  blind  mouths  fumbling  for  my  breast, 

And  this  place  would  have  been  a  place  of  rest 

For  you  and  me ;  we  could  have  come  to  know 

The  depth ;  but  that  is  over ;  I  have  got  to  go. 

"  He  has  come  back,  and  I  have  got  to  go. 

Our    marriage    ends."     She    stood    there   white  and 

breathed. 
Old  Occleve  got  upon  his  feet  with  "  So." 
Blazing  with  wrath  upon  the  hearth  he  seethed. 
A  log  fell  from  the  bars ;  blue  spirals  wreathed 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  93 

Across  the  still  old  woman's  startled  face ; 

The  cat  arose  and  yawned.     Lion  was  still  a  space. 

Old  Occleve  turned  to  Lion.     Lion  moved 

Nearer  to  Mary,  picking  up  the  ring. 

His  was  grim  physic  from  the  soul  beloved ; 

His  face  was  white  and  twitching  with  the  sting. 

*'You  are  my  wife,  you  cannot  do  this  thing," 

He  said  at  last.     "  I  can  respect  your  pride. 

This  thing  affects  your  soul ;  my  judgment  must  decide. 

*'  You  are  unsettled,  shaken  from  the  shock." 

**  Not  so,"  she  said.     She  stretched  a  hand  to  him. 

White,  large  and  noble,  steady  as  a  rock. 

Cunning  with  many  powers,  curving,  slim. 

The  smoke,  drawn  by  the  door-draught,  made  it  dim. 

**  Right,"  Lion  answered.     "  You  are  steady.     Then 

There  is  but  one  world,  Mary ;  this,  the  world  of  men. 

"  And  there's  another  world,  without  its  bounds, 
Peopled  by  streaked  and  spotted  souls  who  prize 


94  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  flashiness  that  comes  from  marshy  grounds 

Above  plain  daylight.     In  their  blinkered  eyes 

Nothing  is  bright  but  sentimental  lies, 

Such  as  are  offered  you,  dear,  here  and  now ; 

Lies  which  betray  the  strongest,  God  alone  knows  how. 

"You,  in  your  beauty  and  your  whiteness,  turn 

Your  strong,  white  mind,  your  faith,  your  fearless  truth, 

All  for  these  rotten  fires  that  so  bum. 

A  sentimental  clutch  at  perished  youth. 

I  am  too  sick  for  wisdom,  sick  with  ruth, 

And  this  comes  suddenly ;  the  unripe  man 

Misses  the  hour,  oh  God.     But  you,  what  is  your  plan  ? 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do,  how  act,  how  live  ? 
What  warrant  have  you  for  your  life  ?    What  trust  ? 
You  are  for  going  sailing  in  a  sieve. 
This  brightness  is  too  mortal  not  to  rust. 
So  our  beginning  marriage  ends  in  dust. 
I  have  not  failed  you,  Mary.     Let  me  know 
What  you  intend  to  do,  and  whither  you  will  go." 


TEE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  96 

"  Go  from  this  place ;  it  chokes  me,"  she  replied. 

"  This  place  has  branded  me ;  I  must  regain 

My  truth  that  I  have  soiled,  my  faith,  my  pride. 

It  is  all  poison  and  it  leaves  a  stain. 

I  cannot  stay  nor  be  your  wife  again. 

Never.     You  did  your  best,  though ;  you  were  kind. 

I  have  grown  old  to-night  and  left  all  that  behind. 

"  Good-bye."    She  turned.    Old  Occleve  faced  his  son. 

Wrath  at  the  woman's  impudence  was  blent. 

Upon  his  face,  with  wrath  that  such  an  one 

Should  stand  unthrashed  until  her  words  were  spent. 

He  stayed  for  Lion's  wrath ;  but  Mary  went 

Unchecked ;  he  did  not  stir.     Her  footsteps  ground 

The  gravel  to  the  gate ;  the  gate-hinge  made  a  sound 

Like  to  a  cry  of  pain  after  a  shot. 

Swinging,  it  cUcked,  it  clicked  again,  it  swung 

Until  the  iron  latch  bar  hit  the  slot. 

Mary  had  gone,  and  Lion  held  his  tongue. 

Old  Mother  Occleve  sobbed ;  her  white  head  hung 


96  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Over  her  sewing  while  the  tears  ran  down 
Her  worn,  blood-threaded  cheeks  and  splashed  upon 
her  gown. 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  said  Lion,  "she  must  go. 
Michael  is  back.     Michael  was  always  first, 
I  did  but  take  his  place.     You  did  not  know. 
Now  it  has  happened,  and  you  know  the  worst. 
So  passion  makes  the  passionate  soul  accurst 
And  crucifies  his  darling.     Michael  comes 
And  the  savage  truth  appears  and  rips  my  life  to 
thrums." 

Upon  Old  Occleve's  face  the  fury  changed 
First  to  contempt,  and  then  to  terror  lest 
Lion,  beneath  the  shock,  should  be  deranged. 
But  Lion's  eyes  were  steady,  though  distressed. 
"Father,  good-night,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  rest. 
Good-night,  I  cannot  talk.     Mother,  good-night." 
He  kissed  her  brow  and  went ;  they  heard  him  strike  a 
light. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  97 

And  go  with  slow  depressed  step  up  the  stairs. 
Up  to  the  door  of  her  deserted  bower ; 
They  heard  him  up  above  them,  moving  chairs ; 
The  memory  of  his  paleness  made  them  cower. 
They  did  not  know  their  son ;  they  had  no  power 
To  help,  they  only  saw  the  new-won  bride 
Defy  their  child,  and  faith  and  custom  put  aside. 

*  ****** 

After  a  time  men  learned  where  Mary  was : 

Over  the  hills,  not  many  miles  away. 

Renting  a  cottage  and  a  patch  of  grass 

Where  Michael  came  to  see  her.    Every  day 

Taught  her  what  fevers  can  inhabit  clay, 

Shaking  this  body  that  so  soon  must  die. 

The  time  made  Lion  old :  the  winter  dwindled  by. 

Till  the  long  misery  had  to  end  or  kill : 
And  "  I  must  go  to  see  her,"  Lion  cried ; 
"  I  am  her  standby,  and  she  needs  me  still ; 
If  not  to  love  she  needs  me  to  decide. 


98  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Dear,  I  will  set  you  free.     Oh,  my  bright  bride, 
Lost  in  such  piteous  ways,  come  back."     He  rode 
Over  the  wintry  hills  to  Mary's  new  abode. 

And  as  he  topped  the  pass  between  the  hills. 
Towards  him,  up  the  swerving  road,  there  came 
Michael,  the  happy  cause  of  all  his  ills ; 
Walking  as  though  repentance  were  the  shame, 
Sucking  a  grass,  unbuttoned,  still  the  same. 
Humming  a  tune ;  his  careless  beauty  wild 
Drawing  the  women's  eyes ;  he  wandered  with  a  child. 

Who  heard,  wide-eyed,  the  scraps  of  tales  which  fell 

Between  the  fragments  of  the  tune ;  they  seemed 

A  cherub  bringing  up  a  soul  from  hell. 

Meeting  unlike  the  meeting  long  since  dreamed. 

Lion  dismounted ;  the  great  valley  gleamed 

With  waters  far  below ;  his  teeth  were  set 

His  heart  thumped  at  his  throat ;  he  stopped ;  the  two 

men  met. 
The  child  well  knew  that  fatal  issues  joined ; 


THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS  99 

He  stood  round-eyed  to  watch  them,  even  as  Fate 
Stood  with  his  pennypiece  of  causes  coined 
Ready  to  throw  for  issue ;  the  bright  hate 
Throbbed,  that  the  heavy  reckoning  need  not  wait. 
Lion  stepped  forward,  watching  Michael's  eyes. 
"  We  are  old  friends,"  he  said.     "  Now,  Michael,  you  be 
wise, 

*'  And  let  the  harm  already  done  suffice ; 

Go,  before  Mary's  name  is  wholly  gone. 

Spare  her  the  misery  of  desertion  twice, 

There's  only  ruin  in  the  road  you're  on  — 

Ruin  for  both,  whatever  promise  shone 

In  sentimental  shrinkings  from  the  fact. 

So,  Michael,  play  the  man,  and  do  the  generous  act. 

*'  And  go ;  if  not  for  my  sake,  go  for  hers. 

You  only  want  her  with  your  sentiment. 

You  are  water  roughed  by  every  wind  that  stirs, 

One  little  gust  will  alter  your  intent 

All  ways,  to  every  wind,  and  nothing  meant, 


100  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Is  your  life's  habit.     Man,  one  takes  a  wife, 

Not  for  a  three  months'  fancy,  but  the  whole  of  life. 

"We  have  been  friends,  and  so  I  speak  you  fair. 
How  will  you  bear  her  ill,  or  cross,  or  tired  ? 
Sentiment  sighing  will  not  help  you  there. 
You  call  a  half  life's  volume  not  desired. 
I  know  your  love  for  her.     I  saw  it  mired. 
Mired,  past  going,  by  your  iBrst  sharp  taste 
Of  life  and  work;   it  stopped;   you  let  her  whole  life 
waste, 

**  Rather  than  have  the  trouble  of  such  love, 
You  will  again ;  but  if  you  do  it  now. 
It  will  mean  death,  not  sorrow.     But  enough. 
You  know  too  well  you  cannot  keep  a  vow. 
There  are  grey  hairs  abeady  on  her  brow. 
You  brought  them  there.     Death  is  the  next  step.     Go, 
Before  you  take  the  step."     "  No,"  Michael  answered, 
"No. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  101 

"  As  for  my  past,  I  was  a  dog,  a  cur, 

And  I  have  paid  blood-money,  and  still  pay. 

But  all  my  being  is  ablaze  with  her ; 

There  is  no  talk  of  giving  up  to-day. 

I  will  not  give  her  up.    You  used  to  say 

Bodies  are  earth.     I  heard  you  say  it.     Liar  1 

You  never  loved  her,  you.     She  turns  the  earth  to  fire." 

"Michael,"  said  Lion,  "you  have  said  such  things 
Of  other  women ;  less  than  six  miles  hence 
You  and  another  woman  felt  love's  wings 
Rosy  and  fair,  and  so  took  leave  of  sense. 
She's  dead,  that  other  woman,  dead,  with  pence 
Pressed  on  her  big  brown  eyes,  under  the  ground ; 
She  that  was  merry  once,  feeling  the  world  go  round. 

"  Her  child  (and  yours)  is  with  her  sister  now. 
Out  there,  behind  us,  living  as  they  can ; 
Pinched  by  the  poverty  that  you  allow. 
All  a  long  autumn  many  rumours  ran 
About  Sue  Jones  that  was :  you  were  the  man. 


102  TEE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  lad  is  like  you.    Think  about  his  mother. 
Before  you  turn  the  earth  to  fire  with  another." 

*'  That  is  enough,"  said  Michael,  "  you  shall  know 
Soon,  to  your  marrow,  what  my  answer  is ; 
Know  to  your  lying  heart ;  now  kindly  go. 
The  neighbours  smell  that  something  is  amiss. 
We  two  will  keep  a  dignity  in  this. 
Such  as  we  can.     No  quarrelling  with  me  here. 
Mary  might  see ;  now  go ;  but  recollect,  my  dear, 

"That  if  you  twit  me  with  your  wife,  you  lie ; 
And  that  your  further  insult  waits  a  day 
When  God  permits  that  Mary  is  not  by ; 
I  keep  the  record  of  it,  and  shall  pay. 
And  as  for  Mary ;  listen :  we  betray 
No  one.    We  keep  our  troth-plight  as  we  meant. 
Now  go,  the  neighbours  gather."    Lion  bowed  and 
went. 

Home  to  his  memories  for  a  month  of  pain. 
Each  moment  like  a  devil  with  a  tongue. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  103 

Urging  him,  "Set  her  free,"  or  "Try  again," 
Or  "  Kill  that  man  and  stamp  him  into  dimg." 
"See  her,"  he  cried.     He  took  his  horse  and  swung 
Out  on  the  road  to  her ;  the  rain  was  falling ; 
Her    dropping    house-eaves    splashed    him    when    he 
knocked  there,  calling. 

Drowned  yellow  jasmine  dripped ;  his  horse's  flanks 
Steamed,  and  dark  runnels  on  his  yellow  hair 
Streaked  the  groomed  surface  into  blotchy  ranks. 
The  noise  of  water  dropping  filled  the  air. 
He  knocked  again ;  but  there  was  no  one  there ; 
No  one  within,  the  door  was  locked,  no  smoke 
Came  from  the  chimney  stacks,  no  clock  ticked,  no  one 
spoke. 

Only  the  water  dripped  and  dribble-dripped. 
And  gurgled  through  the  rain-pipe  to  the  butt ; 
Drops,  trickling  down  the  windows  paused  or  slipped ; 
A  wet  twig  scraked  as  though  the  glass  were  cut. 
The  blinds  were  all  drawn  down,  the  windows  shut. 


104  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

No  one  was  there.     Across  the  road  a  shawl 
Showed  at  a  door  a  space ;  a  woman  gave  a  call. 

"  They're  gone  away,"  she  cried.     "  They're  gone  away. 

Been  gone  a  matter  of  a  week."    Where  to  ? 

The  woman  thought  to  Wales,  but  could  not  say, 

Nor  if  she  planned  returning ;  no  one  knew. 

She  looked  at  Lion  sharply ;  then  she  drew 

The  half-door  to  its  place  and  passed  within, 

Saying  she  hoped  the  rain  would  stop  and  spring  begin. 

Lion  rode  home.    A  month  went  by ;  and  now 
Winter  was  gone ;  the  myriad  shoots  of  green 
Bent  to  the  wind,  like  hair,  upon  the  plough. 
And  up  from  withered  leaves  came  celandine. 
And  sunlight  came,  though  still  the  air  was  keen. 
So  that  the  first  March  market  was  most  fair. 
And  Lion  rode  to  market,  having  business  there. 

And  in  the  afternoon,  when  all  was  done. 
While  Lion  waited  idly  near  the  inn. 
Watching  the  pigeons  sidling  in  the  sun, 


TEE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  106 

As  Jim  the  ostler  put  his  gelding  in, 

He  heard  a  noise  of  rioting  begin 

Outside  the  yard,  with  catcalls ;  there  were  shouts 

Of  "  Occleve.    Lion  Occleve,"  from  a  pack  of  louts. 

Who  himg  about  the  courtyard-arch,  and  cried, 
"  Yah,  Occleve,  of  The  Roughs,  the  married  man, 
Occleve,  who  had  the  bed  and  not  the  bride." 
At  first  without  the  arch ;  but  some  began 
To  sidle  in,  still  calling ;  children  ran 
To  watch  the  baiting ;  they  were  farmer's  leavings 
Who  shouted  thus,  men  cast  for  drunkenness  and  thiev- 
ings. 

Lion  knew  most  of  them  of  old ;  he  paid 

No  heed  to  them,  but  turned  his  back  and  talked 

To  Jim,  of  through-pin  in  his  master's  jade. 

And  how  no  horse-woimds  should  be  stuped  or  caulked. 

The  rabble  in  the  archway,  not  yet  baulked. 

Came  crowding  nearer,  and  the  boys  began, 


106  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

"Who   was   it  took  your  mistress,   master  married 
man?" 

"Who  was  it,  master,  took  your  wife  away  ?" 
"  I  wouldn't  let  another  man  take  mine." 
"  She  had  two  husbands  on  her  wedding  day." 
"  See  at  a  blush :  he  blushed  as  red  as  wine." 
"  She'd  ought  a  had  a  cart-whip  laid  on  fine." 
The  farmers  in  the  courtyard  watched  the  baiting, 
Grinning,  the  barmaids  grinned  above  the  window  grat- 
ing. 

Then  through  the  mob  of  brawlers  Michael  stepped 
Straight  to  where  Lion  stood.     "  I  come,"  he  said, 
"  To  give  you  back  some  words  which  I  have  kept 
Safe  in  my  heart  till  I  could  see  them  paid. 
You  lied  about  Sue  Jones ;  she  died  a  maid 
As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  and  there's  your  lie. 
Full  in  your  throat,  and  there,  and  there,  and  in  your 
eye. 


THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS  107 

"And  there's  for  stealing  Mary"  ...  as  he  struck, 
Lion,  side-stepping,  countered :  Michael  dropped 
Souse  in  a  puddle  of  the  courtyard  muck ; 
Loud  laughter  followed  when  he  rose  up  sopped. 
Friends  rushed  to  intervene,  the  fight  was  stopped. 
The  two  were  hurried  out  by  different  ways. 
Men  said,  "  'Tis  stopped  for  now,  but  not  for  many 
days." 
*  *  *  •  *  *  * 

April  appeared,  the  green  earth's  impulse  came. 
Pushing  the  singing  sap  until  each  bud 
Trembled  with  delicate  life  as  soft  as  flame. 
Filled  by  the  mighty  heart-beat  as  with  blood ; 
Death  was  at  ebb,  and  Life  in  brimming  flood. 
But  little  joy  in  life  could  Lion  see. 
Striving  to  gird  his  will  to  set  his  loved  one  free. 

While  in  his  heart  a  hope  still  struggled  dim 

That  the  mad  hour  would  pass,  the  darkness  break. 

The  fever  die,  and  she  return  to  him. 


108  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

The  routed  nightmare  let  the  sleeper  wake. 

"  Then  we  could  go  abroad,"  he  cried,  "  and  make 

A  new  life,  soul  to  soul ;  oh,  love  !  return." 

"  Too  late,"  his  heart  replied.     At  last  he  rode  to  learn. 

Bowed,  but  alive  with  hope,  he  topped  the  pass. 
And  saw,  below,  her  cottage  by  the  way. 
White,  in  a  garden  green  with  springing  grass. 
And  smoke  against  the  blue  sky  going  grey. 
"  God  make  us  all  the  happier  for  to-day," 
He  muttered  humbly ;  then,  below,  he  spied, 
Mary  and  Michael  entering,  walking  side  by  side. 

Arm  within  arm,  like  lovers,  like  dear  lovers 

Matched  by  the  happy  stars  and  newly  wed. 

Over  whose  lives  a  rosy  presence  hovers. 

Lion  dismounted,  seeing  hope  was  dead. 

A  child  was  by  the  road,  he  stroked  his  head, 

And  "Little  one,"  he  said,  "who  lives  below 

There,  in  the  cottage  there,  where  those  two  people  go  ?  " 


THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS  109 

"They  do,"  the  child  said,  pointing :  "Mre.  Gray 

Lives  in  the  cottage  there,  and  he  does,  too. 

They've  been  back  near  a  week  since  being  away." 

It  was  but  seal  to  what  he  inly  knew. 

He  thanked  the  child  and  rode.     The  Spring  was  blue. 

Bluer  than  ever,  and  the  birds  were  glad ; 

Such  rapture  in  the  hedges  all  the  blackbirds  had. 

He  was  not  dancing  to  that  pipe  of  the  Spring. 

He  reached  The  Roughs,  and  there,  within  her  room, 

Bowed  for  a  time  above  her  wedding  ring, 

Which  had  so  chained  him  to  unhappy  doom ; 

All  his  dead  marriage  haunted  in  the  gloom 

Of  that  deserted  chamber ;  all  her  things 

Lay  still  as  she  had  left  them  when  her  love  took  wings. 

He  kept  a  bitter  vigil  through  the  night, 
Knowing  his  loss,  his  ten  years'  passion  wasted. 
His  life  all  blasted,  even  at  its  height. 
His  cup  of  life's  fulfilment  hardly  tasted. 
Grey  on  the  budding  woods  the  morning  hasted, 


110  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

And  looking  out  he  saw  the  dawn  come  chill 
Over  the  shaking  acre  pale  with  daffodil. 

Birds  were  beginning  in  the  meadows ;  soon 
The  blackbirds  and  the  thrushes  with  their  singing 
Piped  down  the  withered  husk  that  was  the  moon, 
And  up  the  sky  the  ruddy  sun  came  winging. 
Cows  plodded  past,  yokes  clanked,  the  men  were  bring- 
ing 
Milk  from  the  barton.     Someone  shouted  "  Hup, 
Dog,  drive  them  dangy  red  ones  down  away  on  up." 

Some  heavy  hours  went  by  before  he  rose. 

He  went  out  of  the  house  into  the  grass, 

Down  which  the  wind  flowed  much  as  water  flows ; 

The  daffodils  bowed  down  to  let  it  pass. 

At  the  brook's  edge  a  boggy  bit  there  was, 

Right  at  the  field's  north  comer,  near  the  bridge, 

Fenced  by  a  ridge  of  earth ;  he  sat  upon  the  ridge. 

Watching  the  water  running  to  the  sea, 
Watching  the  bridge,  the  stile,  the  path  beyond. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  111 

Where  the  white  violet's  sweetness  brought  the  bee. 
He  paid  the  price  of  being  overfond. 
The  water  babbled  always  from  the  pond 
Over  the  pretty  shallows,  chattering,  tinkling, 
With  trembles  from  the  sunlight  in  its  clearness  wrink- 
ling. 

So  gazing,  like  one  stunned,  it  reached  his  mind. 
That  the  hedge-brambles  overhung  the  brook 
More  than  was  right,  making  the  selvage  blind ; 
The  dragging  brambles  too  much  flotsam  took. 
Dully  he  thought  to  mend.     He  fetched  a  hook. 
And  standing  in  the  shallow  stream  he  slashed. 
For  hours,  it  seemed ;  the  thorns,  the  twigs,  the  dead 
leaves  splashed. 

Splashed  and  were  bobbed  away  across  the  shallows ; 
Pale  grasses  with  the  sap  gone  from  them  fell. 
Sank,  or  were  carried  down  beyond  the  sallows. 
The  bruised  ground-ivy  gave  out  earthy  smell. 
"I  must  be  dead,"  he  thought,  "and  this  is  hell." 


112  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Fiercely  he  slashed,  till,  glancing  at  the  stile, 

He  saw  that  Michael  stood  there,  watching,  with  a  smile, 

His  old  contemptuous  smile  of  careless  ease, 

As  though  the  world  with  all  its  myriad  pain 

SuflBced,  but  only  just  sufficed,  to  please. 

Michael  was  there,  the  robber  come  again. 

A  tumult  ran  like  flame  in  Lion's  brain ; 

Then,  looking  down,  he  saw  the  flowers  shake : 

Gold,  trembling  daffodils ;  he  turned,  he  plucked  a  stake 

Out  of  the  hedge  that  he  had  come  to  mend. 
And  flung  his  hook  to  Michael,  crying,  "  Take ; 
We  two  will  settle  our  accounts,  my  friend, 
Once  and  for  ever.     May  the  Lord  God  make 
You  see  your  sins  in  time."     He  whirled  his  stake 
And  struck  at  Michael's  head ;  again  he  struck ; 
While  Michael  dodged  and  laughed,  "Why,  man,  I 
bring  you  luck. 

"  Don't  kill  a  bringer  of  good  news.     You  fool. 
Stop  it  and  listen.     I  have  come  to  say : 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  113 

Lion,  for  God's  sake,  listen  and  be  cool. 
You  silly  hothead,  put  that  stake  away. 
Listen,  I  tell  you."    But  he  could  not  stay 
The  anger  flaming  in  that  passionate  soul. 
Blows  rained  upon  him  thick ;  they  stung ;  he  lost  con- 
trol. 

Till,  "If  you  want  to  fight,"  he  cried,  "let  be. 
Let  me  get  off  the  bridge  and  we  will  fight 
That  firm  bit  by  the  quag  will  do  for  me. 
So.     Be  on  guard,  and  God  defend  the  right. 
You  foaming  madman,  with  your  hell's  delight. 
Smashing  a  man  with  stakes  before  he  speaks : 
On  guard.     I'll  make  you  humbler  for  the  next  few 
weeks." 

The  ground  was  level  there ;  the  daffodils 

Glimmered  and  danced  beneath  their  cautious  feet. 

Quartering  for  openings  for  the  blow  that  kills. 

Beyond  the  bubbling  brook  a  thrush  was  sweet. 

Quickly  the  footsteps  slid ;  with  feint  and  cheat, 
I 


114  THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS 

The  weapons  poised  and  darted  and  withdrew. 

"Now  stop  it,"  Michael  said,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"We  do  not  stop  till  one  of  us  is  dead," 
Said  Lion,  rushing  in.     A  short  blow  fell 
Dizzily,  through  all  guard,  on  Michael's  head. 
His  hedging-hook  slashed  blindly  but  too  well : 
It  struck  in  Lion's  side.     Then,  for  a  spell, 
Both,  sorely  stricken,  staggered,  while  their  eyes 
Dimmed  under  mists  of  blood ;  they  fell,  they  tried  to 
rise,  — 

Tried  hard  to  rise,  but  could  not,  so  they  lay, 
Watching  the  clouds  go  sailing  on  the  sky. 
Touched  with  a  redness  from  the  end  of  day. 
There  was  all  April  in  the  blackbird's  cry. 
And  lying  there  they  felt  they  had  to  die. 
Die  and  go  under  mould  and  feel  no  more 
April's  green  fire  of  life  go  running  in  earth's  core. 

"There  was  no  need  to  hit  me,"  Michael  said; 
"  You  quiet  thinking  fellows  lose  control. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  115 

This  fighting  business  is  a  foolish  trade. 

And  now  we  join  the  grave-worm  and  the  mole. 

I  tried  to  stop  you.    You're  a  crazy  soul ; 

You  always  were  hot-headed.    Well,  let  be : 

You  deep  and  passionate  souls  have  always  puzzled  me. 

"  I'm  sorry  that  I  struck  you.     I  was  hit. 
And  lashed  out  blindly  at  you ;  you  were  mad. 
It  would  be  diflFerent  if  you'd  stopped  a  bit. 
You  are  too  blind  when  you  are  angry,  lad. 
Oh,  I  am  giddy,  Lion ;  dying,  bad. 
Dying."    He  raised  himself,  he  sat,  his  look 
Grew  greedy  for  the  water  bubbling  in  the  brook. 

And  as  he  watched  it.  Lion  raised  his  head 
Out  of  a  bloodied  clump  of  daflFodil. 
"Michael,"  he  moaned,  "I,  too,  am  dying:  dead. 
You're  nearer  to  the  water.     Could  you  fill 
Your  hat  and  give  me  drink  ?    Or  would  it  spill  ? 
Spill,  I  expect."     "  I'll  try,"  said  Michael,  "  try  — 
I  may  as  well  die  trying,  since  I  have  to  die." 


116  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Slowly  he  forced  his  body's  failing  life 
Down  to  the  water ;   there  he  stooped  and  filled ; 
And  as  his  back  turned  Lion  drew  his  knife. 
And  hid  it  close,  while  all  his  being  thrilled 
To  see,  as  Michael  came,  the  water  spilled, 
Nearer  and  ever  nearer,  bright,  so  bright. 
"Drink,"  muttered  Michael,  "drink.     We  two  shall 
sleep  to-night." 

He  tilted  up  the  hat,  and  Lion  drank. 
Lion  lay  still  a  moment,  gathering  power. 
Then  rose,  as  Michael  gave  him  more,  and  sank. 
Then,  like  a  dying  bird  whom  death  makes  tower, 
He  raised  himself  above  the  bloodied  flower 
And  struck  with  all  his  force  in  Michael's  side. 
"You  should  not  have  done  that,"  his  stricken  com- 
rade cried. 

"  No ;  for  I  meant  to  tell  you,  Lion  ;  meant 
To  tell  you ;  but  I  cannot  now ;   I  die. 
That  hit  me  to  the  heart  and  I  am  spent. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  117 

Mary  and  I  have  parted ;  she  and  I 

Agreed  she  must  return,  lad.    That  is  why 

I  came  to  see  you.     She  is  coming  here, 

Back  to  your  home  to-night.    Oh,  my  beloved  dear, 

"  You  come  to  tread  a  bloody  path  of  flowers. 
All  the  gold  flowers  are  covered  up  with  blood. 
And  the  bright  bugles  blow  along  the  towers ; 
The  bugles  triumph  like  the  Plate  in  flood." 
His  spilled  life  trickled  down  upon  the  mud 
Between  weak,  clutching  fingers.     "Oh,"  he  cried, 
"This  isn't  what  we  planned  here  years  ago."    He 
died. 

Lion  lay  still  while  the  cold  tides  of  death 
Came  brimming  up  his  channels.    With  one  hand 
He  groped  to  know  if  Michael  still  drew  breath. 
His  little  hour  was  nmning  out  its  sand. 
Then,  in  a  mist,  he  saw  his  Mary  stand 
Above.     He  cried  aloud,  "  He  was  my  brother. 


118  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

I  was  his  comrade  sworn,  and  we  have  killed  each 
other. 

"  Oh  desolate  grief,  beloved,  and  through  me. 

We  wise  who  try  to  change.     Oh,  you  wild  birds, 

Help  my  unhappy  spirit  to  the  sea. 

The  golden  bowl  is  scattered  into  sherds." 

And  Mary  knelt  and  murmured  passionate  words 

To  that  poor  body  on  the  dabbled  flowers  : 

"  Oh,  beauty,  oh,  sweet  soul,  oh,  little  love  of  ours  — 

"  Michael,  my  own  heart's  darling,  speak ;  it's  me, 

Mary.     You  know  my  voice.     I'm  here,  dear,  here. 

Oh,  little  golden-haired  one,  listen.     See, 

It's  Mary,  Michael.     Speak  to  Mary,  dear. 

Oh,  Michael,  little  love.     He  cannot  hear ; 

And  you  have  killed  him,  Lion ;  he  is  dead. 

My  little  friend,  my  love,  my  Michael,  golden  head. 

"  We  had  such  fun  together,  such  sweet  fun. 
My  love  and  I,  my  merry  love  and  I. 
Oh,  love,  you  shone  upon  me  like  the  sun. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  ll9 

Oh,  Michael,  say  some  little  last  good-bye." 
Then  in  a  great  voice  Lion  called,  "  I  die. 
Go  home  and  tell  my  people.     Mary.     Hear. 
Though  I  have  wrought  this  ruin,  I  have  loved  you, 
dear. 

"  Better  than  he ;  not  better,  dear,  as  well. 

K  you  could  kiss  me,  dearest,  at  this  last. 

We  have  made  bloody  doorways  from  our  hell. 

Cutting  our  tangle.     Now,  the  murder  past. 

We  are  but  pitiful  poor  souls ;  and  fast 

The  darkness  and  the  cold  come.     Kiss  me,  sweet ; 

I  loved  you  all  my  life ;  but  some  lives  never  meet 

"  Though  they  go  wandering  side  by  side  through  Time. 
Kiss  me,"  he  cried.     She  bent,  she  kissed  his  brow : 
"Oh,  friend,"  she  said,  "you're  lying  in  the  slime." 
"Three    blind   ones,    dear,"   he   murmured,   "in  the 

slough, 
Caught  fast  for  death ;  but  never  mind  that  now ; 


120  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Go  home  and  tell  my  people.     I  am  dying, 

Dying,  dear,  dying  now."    He  died ;  she  left  him  lying, 

And  kissed  her  dead  one's  head  and  crossed  the  field. 

"They  have  been  killed,"  she  called,  in  a  great  crying. 

"  Killed,  and  our  spirits'  eyes  are  all  unsealed. 

The  blood  is  scattered  on  the  flowers  drying." 

It  was  the  hush  of  dusk,  and  owls  were  flying ; 

They  hooted  as  the  Occleves  ran  to  bring 

That  sorry  harvest  home  from  Death's  red  harvesting. 

They  laid  the  bodies  on  the  bed  together. 
And  "You  were  beautiful,"  she  said,  "and  you 
Were  my  own  darling  in  the  April  weather. 
You  knew  my  very  soul,  you  knew,  you  knew. 
Oh,  my  sweet,  piteous  love,  I  was  not  true. 
Fetch  me  fair  water  and  the  flowers  of  spring ; 
My  love  is  dead,  and  I  must  deck  his  burying." 

They  left  her  with  her  dead ;  they  could  not  choose 
But  grant  the  spirit  burning  in  her  face 
Rights  that  their  pity  urged  them  to  refuse. 


THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS  121 

They  did  her  sorrow  and  the  dead  a  grace. 
All  night  they  heard  her  passing  footsteps  trace 
Down  to  the  garden  from  the  room  of  death. 
They    heard    her   singing    there,    lowly,    with    gentle 
breath, 

To  the  cool  darkness  full  of  sleeping  flowers, 
Then  back,  still  singing  soft,  with  quiet  tread, 
But  at  the  dawn  her  singing  gathered  powers 
Like  to  the  dying  swan  who  lifts  his  head 
On  Eastnor,  lifts  it,  singing,  dabbled  red. 
Singing  the  glory  in  his  tumbling  mind. 
Before  the  doors  burst  in,  before  death  strikes  him 
blind. 

So  triumphing  her  song  of  love  began. 
Ringing  across  the  meadows  like  old  woe 
Sweetened  by  poets  to  the  help  of  man 
Unconquered  in  eternal  overthrow ; 
Like  a  great  trumpet  from  the  long  ago 
Her  singing  towered ;  all  the  valley  heard. 


122  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Men  jingling  down  to  meadow  stopped  their  teams  and 
stirred. 

And  they,  the  Occleves,  hurried  to  the  door, 
And  burst  it,  fearing ;  there  the  singer  lay 
Drooped  at  her  lover's  bedside  on  the  floor, 
Singing  her  passionate  last  of  life  away. 
White  flowers  had  fallen  from  a  blackthorn  spray 
Over  her  loosened  hair.     Pale  flowers  of  spring 
Filled  the  white  room  of  death;   they  covered  every- 
thing. 

Primroses,  daffodils,  and  cuckoo-flowers. 

She  bowed  her  singing  head  on  Michael's  breast. 

"  Oh,  it  was  sweet,"  she  cried,  "  that  love  of  ours. 

You  were  the  dearest,  sweet ;  I  loved  you  best. 

Beloved,  my  beloved,  let  me  rest 

By  you  forever,  little  Michael  mine. 

Now  the  great  hour  is  stricken,  and  the  bread  and  wine 

"  Broken  and  spilt ;  and  now  the  homing  birds 
Draw  to  a  covert,  Michael ;  I  to  you. 


THE  DAFFODIL   FIELDS  123 

Bury  us  two  together,"  came  her  words. 
The  dropping  petals  fell  about  the  two. 
Her  heart  had  broken ;  she  was  dead.    They  drew 
Her  gentle  head  aside ;  they  found  it  pressed 
Against  the  broidered  'kerchief  spread  on  Michael's 
breast, 

The  one  that  bore  her  name  in  Michael's  hair. 
Given  so  long  before.    They  let  her  lie. 
While  the  dim  moon  died  out  upon  the  air, 
And  happy  sunlight  coloured  all  the  sky. 
The  last  cock  crowed  for  morning ;  carts  went  by ; 
Smoke  rose  from  cottage  chimneys ;  from  the  byre 
The  yokes  went  clanking  by,  to  dairy,  through  the 
mire. 

In  the  day's  noise  the  water's  noise  was  stilled. 
But  still  it  slipped  along,  the  cold  hill-spring, 
Dropping  from  leafy  hollows,  which  it  filled, 
On  to  the  pebbly  shelves  which  made  it  sing ; 
Glints  glittered  on  it  from  the  'fisher's  wing 


124  THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

It  saw  the  moorhen  nesting ;  then  it  stayed 

In  a  great  space  of  reeds  where  merry  otters  played. 

Slowly  it  loitered  past  the  shivering  reeds 

Into  a  mightier  water ;  thence  its  course 

Becomes  a  pasture  where  the  salmon  feeds. 

Wherein  no  bubble  tells  its  humble  source ; 

But  the  great  waves  go  rolling,  and  the  horse 

Snorts  at  the  bursting  waves  and  will  not  drink. 

And  the  great  ships  go  outward,  bubbling  to  the  brink. 

Outward,  with  men  upon  them,  stretched  in  line. 
Handling  the  halliards  to  the  ocean's  gates. 
Where  flicking  windflaws  fill  the  air  with  brine. 
And  all  the  ocean  opens.     Then  the  mates 
Cry,  and  the  sunburnt  crew  no  longer  waits, 
But  sing  triumphant  and  the  topsail  fills 
To  this  old  tale  of  woe  among  the  daffodils. 


T 


HE     following     pages    contain    advertisements    of 
Macmillan    poems    by    the   same    author. 


JOHN  MASEFIELD'S 

The  Everlasting  Mercy,  and  The  Widow 
in  Bye  Street 

Decorated  boards,  $1-25  net;  postpaid,  $1.38 

*'  The  Everlasting  Mercy  "  was  awarded  the  Edward  de  Polignac 
prize  of  $500  by  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature  for  the  best  imagina- 
tive work  of  the  year. 

"  John  Masefield  is  the  man  of  the  hour,  and  the  man  of  to-morrow 
too,  in  poetry  and  in  the  play  writing  craft."  —  John  Galsworthy. 

"  —  recreates  a  wholly  new  drama  of  existence."  —  WiLLlAM  Stan-. 
LEV  Braithwaite,  iV.  y.  Times, 

"  Mr.  Masefield  comes  like  a  flash  of  light  across  contemporary 
English  poetry,  and  he  trails  glory  where  his  imagination  reveals  the 
substances  of  life.  The  improbable  has  been  accomplished  by  Mr. 
Masefield;  he  has  made  poetry  out  of  the  very  material  that  has  re- 
fused to  yield  it  for  almost  a  score  of  years.  It  has  only  yielded  it 
with  a  passion  of  Keats,  and  shaped  it  with  the  imagination  of  Cole- 
ridge."—  Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

"  Originality,  force,  distinction,  and  deep  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart." —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"They  are  truly  great  pieces." — Kentucky  Post. 

"  A  vigor  and  sincerity  rare  in  modem  English  literature." 

—  The  Independent. 

"  If  Mr.  Masefield  has  occasionally  appeared  to  touch  a  reminiscent 
chord  with  George  Meredith,  it  is  merely  an  example  of  his  good  taste 
and  the  sameness  of  big  themes."  —  George  Middleton  in  La  Fol^ 
letters  Magazine. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


JOHN   MASEFIELD'S 

The  Story  of  a  Round-House,  and  other  Poems 

Decorated  boards,  I2m0f  $1.30  net;  postpaid,  $1.43 

"John  Masefield  has  produced  the  finest  literature  of  the  year." 

—  J.  W.  Barrie. 

"John  Masefield  is  the  most  interesting  poetic  personality  of  the 
day."  —  TAe  Continent. 

"  Ah  !  the  story  of  that  rounding  the  Horn  !  Never  in  prose  has  the 
sea  been  so  tremendously  described."  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"Masefield's  new  book  attracts  the  widest  attention  from  those  who 
in  any  degree  are  interested  in  the  quality  of  present-day  literature.' 

—  Boston  Transcript. 

"  A  remarkable  poem  of  the  sea."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  Vivid  and  thrillingly  realistic."  —  Current  Literature. 

"A  genuine  sailor  and  a  genuine  poet  are  a  rare  combination;  they 
have  produced  a  rare  poem  of  the  sea,  which  has  made  Mr.  Masefield's 
position  in  hterature  secure  beyond  the  reach  of  caviling." 

—  Everybody's  Magazine. 

"  Masefield  has  prisoned  in  verse  the  spirit  of  life  at  sea." 

—  N.  Y.  Sun. 

'*  There  is  strength  about  everything  Masefield  writes  that  compels 
the  feeling  that  he  has  an  inward  eye  on  which  he  draws  to  shape  new 
films  of  old  pictures.  In  these  pictures  is  freshness  combined  with 
power,  which  form  the  keynotes  of  his  poetry."  —  N.  Y.  Globe. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

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